


Elegy for Númenor - Volume 1: Journey to Umbar

by elfscribe



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth, Battle Scenes, Drama, Evil Genius, First Time, Friendship/Love, Gap Filler, M/M, Númenor, The Haradrim, Umbar, sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:38:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 188,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfscribe/pseuds/elfscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Númenórean King Ar-Pharazôn thinks he has won an easy victory when Sauron surrenders to him and becomes his prisoner. But the march back to Umbar with the conniving Dark Lord turns out to have many unanticipated twists and turns through a nest of politics and intrigue, including Sauron's attempted seduction of Ar-Pharazôn's favorite male courtesan.</p><p>This is volume I of a planned trilogy -- an epic tale of political intrigue, the desire for immortality and love, sorcery, hubris, loyalty, lust, and catastropic amounts of water.</p><p>MEFA 2009 First Place winner in Genres: Longer Works: Incomplete  (Vol. 1 is now complete)<br/>This fic was recommended in USA Today, May 20, 2015! (They have a fanfiction section.  Who knew?)<br/>First posted on SWG 2/8/09.  Completed 6/22/12</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fallback Plan

Barad-dûr, 3261, Second Age

Outside, the wind wailed and nattered like a wounded soul, echoing Dolgu’s increasing disquiet as he climbed the winding stairway of Barad-dûr. This audience with His Excellency would not go well—of that he was sure. But there was no one else that he could force to convey this news, not for all the whips in Middle-earth. And so, as the Chief Nazgûl, highest in rank, the task fell upon him. He consoled himself that at least if his dreadful Master finally finished killing him tonight, it would come as a welcome relief.  
  
A blast of cold wind coming through a vent forced grit into the wrappings about his face. The sensation would have been unpleasant if he could feel it, but long ago he had ceased noticing mundane physical discomforts. That had proved useful on endless campaigns. But the off side was that he could not feel pleasure either. The scent of fresh bread, the taste of sweet wine, or the comfort of a warm body pressed close, all that he’d enjoyed long ago, were denied him. He might as well be dead. But fear and its twin sons, anger and hate, those he could feel. It was as if other sensations had been stripped, leaving only those distilled into their perfect and consuming essence. He had learned to direct that purity of emotion into a deadly weapon. When the messenger had arrived and bowed before him, stuttering out the evil tidings, Dolgu had turned his wrath upon him, and the pitiful creature had slain himself with his own hand. The blood was still splashed upon Dolgu’s boots.  
  
He paused at the wide landing at the top of the stair and contemplated the iron-bound door with its hideously leering gargoyles. One of them hissed and he felt the resistance of an unseen barrier. His Master trusted very few, even of his own servants. Dolgu’s lips quirked as another emotion surfaced—pride. He was the first and foremost in his Master’s affections, such as they were. He shouldn’t forget that Tar-Mairon needed him. Pausing, he squared his shoulders, letting the black robes settle about his tall form, and then sent out his inquiry. In response came the cold thread of his Master’s thoughts, “Dolgu, my stalwart, you are here. Enter.”  
  
Slowly the doors ground back on their hinges and Dolgu came into a large room, open on one side. Overhead, a vaulted ceiling disappeared into the gloom. The room faced west, framed by a portico that looked directly at the smoking hell of Mount Orodruin. An eruption oozed like pus down the mountain’s flank, illuminating the room in terrible, crimson splendor.  
  
This was the audience chamber with its immense stone chair carved of black basalt. It was rife with his Master’s power, as overwhelming as that of the fiery mountain, beating full onto his consciousness. But Tar-Mairon wasn’t here.  
  
Heavy wooden doors at the other end of the room opened for him. He passed under the curved archway and went through the next room, which was fearsomely warm from a roaring fire on the hearth. There were many heavy wooden tables crammed with equipment: bubbling pots and beakers of liquids colored blue and red and green, crucibles and tongs. Hanging in rows along the wall were all sorts of instruments of the smith’s trade: knives, hammers, picks, pliers, chisels, files. A bellows and a small forge were set in one end of the fireplace. There were man-sized models of engines of war—including a strange device that resembled a catapult. It was a new design. Dolgu could see that. He paused, touching it in reverence. His master’s intellect never ceased to amaze him. In the next room were shelves lined with jars of herbs and strange pickled creatures, and all manner of bizarre stuffed animals, dried insects and bats pinned to the walls,  and cages full of living horrors that scurried about and peered at him with malevolent red eyes. Faintly, he could smell rotten flesh.  
  
“In the maproom, Dolgu,” the voice spoke in his head.  
  
He passed through several more chambers, each crammed with specimens of his Master’s ferocious desire for knowledge. The maproom had shelf upon shelf of books from floor to ceiling. There were scrolls, rolled maps, and drawings everywhere, sprawled open on the divan, on tables, and the polished stone floor. Here also, a small fire burned in a hearth. In the center of the room a large map was unfurled on a table, its sides weighted down with glistening globes of obsidian. It was very detailed, drawn in black and red ink, and covered with markers signifying  the location of his Master’s and opponent’s forces—both the type and number. The Númenóreans were indicated by tiny ships docked in the vicinity of Umbar. Dolgu noted briefly that the markers were wrong.  
  
Handsomely robed in black and red silk, his Master sat in a plush, wing-backed chair, his legs drawn up under him. At his feet lay the huge wolf, Ráca, who growled slightly at Dolgu’s approach. Tar-Mairon held an enameled goblet in one hand and was cradling his chin in the other. His dark silver-streaked hair was plaited into a thick braid that hung over his shoulder. The flickering firelight etched his gaunt face in harsh angles. On his brow sat an intricate gold circlet with a large ruby in the center, a piece that Tar-Mairon had wrought himself. He was looking with his characteristic intensity at a gnome who was bent over the map, his strategist, Gron.  
  
With a languid rise of the cup, Tar-Mairon gestured towards the map. “It is not certain, Gron. As yet our force is not large enough, nor sufficiently armed, and the eastern plains of Umbar offer little cover.”  
  
“Excellency, is there not another battalion coming from Khand?” Gron said in his strange, creaking voice.  
  
“Yes, by my summons,” the Master said. “Their king has pledged an increase of one thousand. Put a marker there.” His voice had the purring undercurrent of a great panther. The gnome inclined his knobbed head, pushed his spectacles up his long nose, and hastened to the bin to select a blue marker, which he put in place.  
  
“Not there. Already, they should be at the far shores of Lake Nûrnen,” Tar-Mairon said and with a flip of his finger, the marker slid further up the map.  “They will add to the forces within Mordor.”  
  
Gron stroked his chin. “If we wait for the Dúnedain to march inland, we should have enough to contain them at Arzog’s Pass, just barely.”  
  
Although Dolgu knew his Master was aware of him, it wasn’t until then that Tar-Mairon acknowledged his presence. He smiled charmingly, raised a clawed finger, and beckoned Dolgu close. The gold band about his middle finger glowed like fire. For a moment, Dolgu’s head was filled with its whispers. He had to shake them clear. His own ring grew heavy on his finger.  
  
He bowed low. “My Lord.”  
  
“Dolgu, freshly come from the fences, I’ve been expecting you. Do you want some wine after your journey?” He held up his cup. “It is quite good—a new shipment from Dorwinion. Ah, but I forget, you have no taste for such things.”  
  
Dolgu shook his head. “No wine, my Lord.”  
  
“So then, my pet, you bring news.”  Tar-Mairon’s eyes lit up hungrily.  
  
“I do. Recent spies have brought further intelligence of Ar-Pharazôn’s forces.”  
  
Tar-Mairon rose from the chair, tall and gaunt, silk rustling. Behind him, his shadow spread out on the wall like a vast wingéd thing.  
  
The Ring whispered.  
  
Tar-Mairon said, “I notice you have come yourself. What happened to the messenger?”  
  
Dolgu gestured at the blood on his boots. Tar-Mairon frowned. “You know I desire to hear directly from the source,” he said. His fierce golden eyes pierced through all Dolgu’s wards and wrappings to see HIM as if his heart were pounding naked outside his chest. Involuntarily, Dolgu clutched his robe.  
  
“I interrogated him completely and have it all exact.” Dolgu tapped his temple. “My Lord . . . ” He steeled himself. There was no sweetening this news. “It appears that the intelligence from Númenor underestimated the size of the force.”  
  
Tar-Mairon’s frown deepened. “By how much?”  
  
Dolgu hesitated and suddenly felt his forehead throb. “By a goodly amount, My Lord.”  
  
“By . . . how. . . much?”  
  
That rumbling note shook Dolgu to his core. It took all his control not to cower down like some kicked dog. “By a factor of . . . two, at least.”  
  
“Two. . . ” Tar-Mairon’s voice rose. “By two? There are forty thousand troops disembarking on the shores of Middle-earth?”  
  
“That was one estimate. The ravens reported fifty thousand, but they do not always count well enough from the air.”  
  
“Oh, they count well enough! Far better than those sniveling men. Fifty thousand! How could we have been so off? For what are we paying those fools on Númenor?”  
  
“It would seem that Ar-Pharazôn, wary of spies, built a goodly portion of his force in secret on the southern coast of Hyarrostar. The two forces joined en route. The messenger reported that when they appeared off the coast of Umbar, the array of sails, red and golden, was so vast that it spanned the horizon, north to south, terrifying the Corsairs who had sworn fealty to you. They have fled, offering no resistance. In addition, the King has gathered vassals from the coasts. It is said to be the greatest military force ever assembled. They have already disembarked and are marching inland—as we speak.”  
  
“As we speak,” muttered His Excellency. “Then there is little time. One of our spies must have betrayed us to Ar-Pharazôn.”  
  
“He has plenty of gold with which to buy affection,” Dolgu replied. He swallowed. “My Lord, Ar-Pharazôn is demanding your surrender. He sends heralds before him, calling for you to come forth from Barad-dûr.”  
  
“What?” Tar-Mairon looked shocked. He began striding about the room. “I should surrender without fighting a single battle? What massive arrogance!” He hurled his cup against the wall where it hit with a vicious clang and a slapping splash. The gnome hastened to pick it up and then hid under the table. His Excellency wheeled upon Dolgu. “You were charged with buying affections and, by whatever means, making sure the loyalties stuck! You! I trusted you. How could you have failed me so thoroughly?”  
  
Stung by the rebuke, Dolgu tried to keep his voice steady. “My Lord, do you not recall that I warned we may have been vastly underestimating Ar-Pharazôn’s forces? But then you trusted the word of that Corsair from . . .”  
  
“Shut it,” Tar-Mairon thundered. He suddenly raised his hands and Dolgu found himself flying backwards and then pinned against the wall like one of his Master’s insects. Blue lightning writhed about him and he found that he could feel pain after all. “Never again am I trusting to treacherous tarks,” Tar-Mairon railed. He paced, pulling at his hair. “Gron, get out here! I want to see if this situation can be salvaged.”  
  
Shaking like leaves in a tempest, the gnome emerged from under the table, the goblet held out in front of him as if to ward off his Master’s wrath. Tar-Mairon scooped a handful of little silver markers from the bin and flung them at him. “Now, put in place an additional thirty thousand disembarking at Umbar and marching inland like a plague of ants. How would you stop them?”  
  
“I . . . My Lord. As you well know the plan was to catch them in a pincer movement: The Easterlings, in effect six thousands coming through the Dagorlad; the forces from Khand, one thousand knights, very fierce in battle; then those Hillmen from the north, maybe five thousands. The Corsairs were to harry them from the sea. Their fleet was charged with burning the Númenórean’s ships at dock and thereby cutting off their retreat, and now we hear they have departed. Unfortunate development. There are still three thousand uruks arrayed on the east side of the Ephel Dúath we can push forward. If you empty your lands of those you had reserved to guard the fences of Mordor, we have . . .” he paused and shook his head, “still only five thousand more, making a total of twenty thousands. And I doubt we can move those uruks quickly enough. Perhaps if King Hybernan’s forces coming up from Haradwaith join. . . ”  
  
In agitation, Tar-Mairon slammed both hands down on the map. “We don’t have enough time. Do you not recall that Khamûl sent word that the Haradrim have been . . . difficult to convince to our banner? My Lorcastrîn have not been able to influence Hybernan’s nephew Aksan, and he’s the real power among them.  Skinflaying traitors! After all I’ve done for them!  And without the Haradrim, the pincer plan will be overwhelmed with the force Ar-Pharazôn can bring to bear.”  
  
Gron shook his head as he stared at the map. “Can we not get the new engines of war ready in time, Master? He waved a long-fingered hand at the pieces on the map. “I have estimated one throw could take out twenty knights at once.”  
  
“The latest design is still untested in battle and we have only the two half-size prototypes,” Tar-Mairon said, his voice rising in frustration. “And the trainer of the hill trolls said they were not yet trustworthy enough to wield them. Not surprising since they have brains the size of a weasel’s good intentions! I told Melkor that was a design flaw but he cared only for breeding brute force. It comes down to this: fifty thousand against twenty thousand. We could throw all our troops to the last snaga at them and the numbers would still best us!”  
  
“Then, I counsel retreat, my Lord. Bring all the forces within Mordor. The walls are impregnable.”  
  
“Have you nothing better, Strategist?” Tar-Mairon sneered. “Our stores wouldn’t last six months feeding an army of that size. They could be years at siege with continued supplies from the land around, especially if Gil-galad gets off his high horse and decides to come to Ar-Pharazôn’s aid. Curse the elves! In any event, that is hardly the mien of the King of Middle-earth, to hide behind walls like a craven. For years I have been setting this in motion. Years of planning and expense, all tossed in the slop bucket! By Melkor’s chains, I despise men, and the Númenóreans most of all! I cannot stomach another defeat at their hands!”  
  
“If we negotiate a truce, perhaps they will leave?” Gron ventured. “Ar-Pharazôn must see the wisdom in withdrawal as he won’t want to lose most of . . .”  
  
A rising wind appeared around Tar-Mairon that began sweeping up small objects in the room until there was a veritable maelstrom. Gron grabbed a heavy metal candelabra as his legs flew up in the air. “Master . . .” he wailed.  
  
Dolgu felt his Master’s wrath like knives cutting his undead flesh. He hated him so thoroughly it felt like love. Hardly able to move from his position pinned against the wall, he hissed through lips drawn up in a rictus of pain, “Your Excellency, you know that my loyalty to you is absolute. I will drive your forces from behind. Dread shall make them invincible. They shall throw themselves upon the enemy and vanquish them. I swear it!” The final words were wrung through a howl of anguish.  
  
But Tar-Mairon was now fully possessed by the tantrum. Dolgu had only seen the like a handful of times as usually his Master held himself in tight control. The shadow grew, absorbing the light. Books and candles and maps flew in ever-tightening circles. The wolf ran howling into the other room as His Excellency’s wings appeared, tearing through his robes, and, with a shriek, he soared upward into the gloom. By Utumno, Dolgu loathed it when Tar-Mairon pulled that stunt.  
  
“Excellency,” Gron cried above the tumult, “When military force is insufficient, I counsel . . .” his voice rose into a wail, “I counsel . . . guile!” At that moment the gale plucked him from the candelabra and smacked him into the wall.  
  
There was a sudden calm. With a ping and a thud, objects rained out of the air. Both Dolgu and Gron slid down the wall, landing unceremoniously on the floor. They glanced at one another. Gron rolled his eyes.  
  
Tar-Mairon had reappeared in his human form. With an air of controlled excitement, he strolled about the confused debris of the room, thoughtfully tapping his lips with one finger. The Ring was whispering.  
  
“Guile,” Tar-Mairon repeated. “Of course. Treachery, deceit, the Fallback Plan.”  
  
With a painful moan, Gron picked himself up. He rubbed the back of his head. “Yes, Excellency. You could offer to surrender. We could lure Ar-Pharazôn here. Set a trap for him.”  
  
“I have a better idea,” Tar-Mairon said in a voice musical with anticipation. “Much better. A tactic that will accomplish what I wish most efficiently without the loss of so many resources. How could I not have seen it before?” He approached Dolgu, reached down and took his arm, helping him to his feet. “Are you hurt?”  
  
“Pain is a temporary inconvenience,” Dolgu replied. He suppressed a shudder at his Master’s touch.  
  
“My most faithful.” Tar-Mairon fussed with the hood folded about Dolgu’s shoulders. “Come and speak with me. I regret my lapse of . . . control. You forgive me, do you not?” He cupped Dolgu’s chin in his hand. “Remember when you first came to me in Umbar?” Again, his voice had taken on the purring undercurrent. Warmth crept like an ache into Dolgu’s body. He did not want to remember.  
  
Tar-Mairon released him, picked a book out of his chair, and tossed it to the side. He sank into the seat. “Gron, send for some more wine . . .  and food. I suspect we will have a long night. And summon some snaga to repair this room.”  
  
Gron folded into a deep bow and made a hasty retreat.  
  
“We have much to discuss,” Tar-Mairon said. “Much to plan and little time.”  
  
“As ever, I am your servant,” Dolgu replied sullenly. His nerves seemed to be on fire.  
  
“Tell me about Ar-Pharazôn, whom the elves call Tar-Calion.”  
  
“What do you wish to know?”  
  
“I need to know who he is and what he most desires.”  
  
“What he most desires? What men have always desired—to be immortal, my Lord.” He did not add that the promise of immortality was what had ensnared him and that he had found the granting of his wish to be less than he had imagined. The band tightened about his finger.  
  
“Of course, that’s a given,” Tar-Mairon said with a flip of his hand. “No doubt, he envies the elves. We both know there exist two factions on Númenor, the King’s Men, who voice dissatisfaction with the ban of the Valar, and the Elendili, the Faithful, who still believe the Valar have their best interests at heart. The fools! But of course our spies tell us within those factions are yet more—each looking to their own interests. It is good for us. Factions can be used against each other as diamond dust to diamonds.”  
  
Dolgu nodded. “That is certain. There is much distrust between them. However, Ar-Pharazôn still has a powerful councilor and boyhood friend who is of the Elendili. That would be Amandil. He keeps the factions from open war with one another.”  
  
“Ah yes. What sort of man is he?”      
  
“Amandil? He is a great captain of men with an unsurpassed knowledge of ships and sailing. He commands loyalty and respect, even from Ar-Pharazôn.”  
  
“I see. And Ar-Pharazôn, the Golden, does he command loyalty and respect?”  
  
“Through fear and loyalty to the crown, yes, but not, I think, through love of his person. He is strong-minded and ruthless and desires power and wealth, which he has in large measure achieved through exploitation of your subjects. If he succeeds in taking over Middle-earth, then he will usurp your title, King of Men.”  
  
Tar Mairon smirked. “For a time, perhaps, he shall believe that he has taken that title. Tell me then, how fares their trade?”  
  
“Anadûnê is still mostly self-sufficient, but lacks silver and gold, which the king covets. They import all manner of luxuries, as well as grain for their growing population.  Timber for ship-building is becoming scarce too, they say.”  
  
“The desire for gold is a weakness certainly, even more so is the lack of sufficient bread. But I want to know his heart. Does he have children?”  
  
“No, my Lord.”  
  
“As I recall, he is married . . . to his cousin.”  
  
“The beautiful Míriel. They say she was forced into the marriage.”  
  
“Yes. Her father was Inziladûn, the Seer.”  
  
“Inziladûn,” Dolgu grimaced. “He who named himself Tar-Palantir and revived the old ways. They say his daughter is like-minded, one of the Faithful. She was heir to the throne and had the support of the Faithful but Ar-Pharazôn has powerful allies and a forceful personality.  He manipulated the situation, forced her hand in marriage, and seized the Sceptre to himself. My spies tell me that his relations with his Queen are understandably . . . troubled. There are no offspring, as yet.”  
  
Tar-Mairon looked thoughtful. He absently twisted his ring, which protested softly. “Then above all, he wants heirs. Tell me, does he have any bastards?”  
  
“Unknown. But it is unlikely.”  
  
“How is that? A king of his power surely can have any woman he likes.”  
  
“He could if he liked women,” Dolgu replied smugly. “But his preference seems to be for his own sex. He has a cadre of favorites, beautiful young men from Anadûnê and their subject lands. They are called his zirâmîkin—beloved boys, although there are others who give them names not quite so attractive.” He sweetened his voice. “I’m told he is quite dissipated, that there are extravagant, drunken feasts in which he watches them perform, and that at the end, he joins them. It is quite a scandal among those who know it.”  
  
“That penchant would make it hard to get children, legitimate or not,” Tar-Mairon chuckled. “Yes, I believe I can see all the ways to Ar-Pharazôn’s heart. Simple enough.”  
  
“I should warn you, my Lord, he is no simpleton, as was shown when he was able to hide the strength of his force.”  
  
Tar-Mairon frowned. For a moment Dolgu feared the return of his terrible temper. Instead he rose from his seat.  
  
“I think, Dolgu, my pet, that the time has come for the return of Annatar. Come with me.”  
  
They went through a series of rooms into a large wardrobe. “It’s in here somewhere,” Tar-Mairon muttered. He removed a stack of wooden boxes and then cried, “Lo!” as he whisked a drape from a large mirror on clawed feet. He and Dolgu dragged it out into the lantern light. Standing before it, Tar-Mairon studied himself, turning one way and then the other. Then he disrobed so that he was clad only in a loincloth. He frowned. “This is a problem, Dolgu. My form has changed since the days of Annatar. I was unaware of how much.”  
  
“Has it, my Lord?” Dolgu looked at his Master critically for the first time in many years. He saw golden eyes with elongated pupils, more feline than human, a face as gaunt as the rest of his body, skin milk-pale in hue, and lusterless greying hair. Though still tall, his Excellency was stooped slightly and his form had withered, like a leafless tree in winter. Indeed, he was not the alluring creature of dark hair, creamy skin, and supple body that had come to him long ago. It occurred to Dolgu that perhaps the Ring was consuming his Master as well.  
  
The Ring murmured and Tar-Mairon’s face became alive with a thought. “Remember those elves taken in the siege of Ost-in-Edhil that I gave you for safekeeping? Are they still alive?”  
  
“We have one left, my Lord. The others faded, but one has held on against all odds. He is in the dungeon below Barad-dûr.”  
  
“Which one survived?”  
  
“I do not recall ever knowing his name. He has red hair, unusual for a Noldo.”  
  
Tar-Mairon smiled. “Not unusual for one of Fëanáro’s brood. Yes, I remember that one. I knew there would be a use for him someday that would defray the cost of feeding him. Bring him to me. And then find out what is keeping Gron.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”

-tbc-

******************

Thank you so much to my betas Russandol and Malinornë. Also thanks to Leaf Light and Spiced Wine for their comments and support and to members of the Lizard Council, particularly Kymahalei, Erulisse, Pandemonium, Oshun, Grey Gazania, Aearwen for critical reading.

Notes:  


*Aksan (elfscribe-invented name) for King Hybernan’s nephew and a leader of the Haradrim.

*Arzog’s Pass (elfscribe-invented name and location) a pass through hills located a day’s march from Umbar.

*Dolgu is a canon Adûnaic name meaning ‘night’ but with an evil connotation. Using that name is an elfscribe creation. As far as I know there is no canon name for the Witchking. (Btw, he's not the Witchking of Angmar as yet because that doesn't happen until T.A. 1300.) There are some fanon names that came from RPG games, Tindomul and El-Mûrazor but I decided not to go with those.

*King Hybernan is an elfscribe-invented name.

*Mairon is Sauron's original name meaning excellent or admirable. Tar-Mairon means essentially King Excellent. From ‘Words, Phrases & Passages in various tongues in The Lord of the Rings’ published in Parma Eldalamberon #17:  
_“Sauron’s original name was Mairon, but this was altered after he was suborned by Melkor. But he continued to call himself Mairon the Admirable, or Tar-mairon ‘King Excellent’ until after the downfall of Númenor.”_  
It seemed plausible that Dolgu would use that term instead of Sauron which means the Abhorred in Quenya. I’ll be using others of Sauron’s many names as the story progresses.

*snaga - canon Black Speech meaning “slave.”

*tarks – In LOTR this word is used by orcs to refer to men of Gondor. It comes from the Quenya word tarkîl, meaning Númenóreans, therefore I am inferring that it is possible Sauron could have used it in the way he does here.

*zirâmîkin - beloved boys. zirân - beloved or desired and mîkin come from canon Adûnaic, but I’ve combined them into a new word.

 


	2. The Elf from Ost-in-Edhil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron has plans for a prisoner held in his dungeon for 1500 years.

Ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred. Fingaer shifted his grasp to the next set of bars, and began again, banging his head lightly against them as he counted. One . . . two . . . three . . . He could detect a slight change in the air. Did it signify a door opening somewhere? He tested the air with his tongue, then ran it uselessly against the bars. Iron, poorly forged, just as he’d thought nigh unto eight thousand times. Would he count the frequency of all his thoughts? Despair cloaked him. He shook it off. Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . There was no single spot of his cell that he had not investigated in every way possible, in every posture possible, with every thought possible. Sometimes he could shut down all his thoughts and just float in oblivion. There was some relief in that, but he couldn’t maintain it, and awareness always returned . . . to this.    
  
Why was he still here? The others had died – long ago. One by one. He knew the minute it happened, when their thoughts, like moth-wings of comfort, had ceased brushing against his. Now, there was little to save him from this desperate tedium. Twenty . . . twenty-one . . . What would dinner be tonight? Of late, it seemed he could taste a different type of grain in the porridge and spent some time sifting through distant memories of other tastes to see if he could identify it. An interesting exercise. But what if it were all illusion? What if he had no real memory of these things and was just imagining that he remembered?  
  
That thought caused him to howl in frustration, fling himself away from the bars, and crouch on the sand that floored his prison, rocking, rocking. He ran his fingers through hair that was coming loose from the rough plaits. Wondered briefly if it would be worth the punishment if he began pulling it out again. Somewhere back in the mists he remembered doing that and twisting the strands around a bone needle to fashion flowers and insects and leaves. He’d arranged them around his cell, given them names and imagined their histories, blew on them to make them dance. But they’d taken his creations away and beaten him for pulling his hair out. He’d rebelled and tried it again, and again, until finally, it was not worth the effort anymore.  
  
He’d managed to hide one away – one flower made of his coppery hair.  He crawled to the loose stone in the wall, pried at it with his fingers until it came loose.  Reaching into the hole, he took the little figure into the palm of his hand, blew on it. “My love, dance for me,” he said softly.  
  
Horrible screams from a cell nearby startled him.  It was a relatively recent neighbor, some wretched glamog who, he imagined, had crossed a superior in some manner. They never lasted long. There were times when he’d even tried to talk to them, but there was little to say and they usually snarled and cursed at him. However, the sound had been enough to make him nervous.  Carefully, he replaced the flower and slid the stone back into place.  
  
Clutching his knees to his chest, he began rocking again. Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four . . . Why did they keep him? It was the most frequent of all the unanswered questions. They fed him well enough to keep him in flesh, even if the fare was poor. They punished him if he hurt himself. Every few days they took him from his cell and made him run and lift rocks until his muscles ached and he would beg for surcease. Grateful as he was for the diversion, it made no sense. Why hadn’t Sauron tortured him to death as he had done to others? Was this then his fate? To be kept alive for eternity in this living hell? Perhaps that in itself was his answer.  
  
Death had become his beloved. His desire. Come for me, he begged. Let me fly to Mandos! Anything, anything to be relieved of this. Sixty-five . . . sixty-six . . . . He licked cracked lips. It was always dry here with a bitter tang in the air. He had tried drinking his urine, but that made it worse. Where was the glamog with the water bucket? He should be here by now. Fingaer rose and pressed his face to the bars, straining to peer down the hall that was dimly lit by a distant torch. It was a disgraceful sign of weakness, he knew, but he had come to love the lumpish keeper who brought the water. He would whimper and kiss his hands, although the glamog laughed and struck at him. Seventy . . . seventy-one . . . seventy-two. Even his hatred of his captor had dimmed with time. Now, he thought cynically, he might even kiss Annatar's hands if he offered him the key to this cell.  
  
Then it came, suddenly as always – the whispering. It descended on him from all sides accompanied by an acrid burning stench. He screamed and whirled in a circle, crouching and covering his ears to shut it out, but he heard it even so. He screamed again until he was hoarse. That was no use either. Desperate. He was beyond desperate. Did he even know what that word meant anymore?  Did he know what any words meant?  The sound of a friendly voice, how he ached for it.  The whispering stroked his skin, making him flinch.  
  
The only escape was to dream . . . relive again memories of long ago or to invent new ones. The dreams were his salvation, that which kept him from going completely mad, although he could no longer separate dreams from living memories. Sometimes he wondered if anything he remembered had been real. Had he ever had a life beyond this bleak existence at the roots of Barad-dûr? He decided that it did not matter for the images were there in his head, vital as ever.  
  
His thoughts slipped off to his favorite dream, the one he'd thought of so often it was as if the memory formed a groove in his head.  His beloved, the one who had inspired his flower. In this dream, his beloved is dancing. His hair whirls after him like a golden banner. Every movement is prelude. The flash of fingers, the self-assured curl of the lips, the limbs bending and flowing to the beat of drums and the piping of flutes. He holds the crowd in the palm of his hand. With precision, he comes out of an endless spin and faster now, leaps like a young stag. So graceful and masculine. One impossible leap after another as he flies around the clearing. The drums roll to a finish and he collapses onto one knee, head bowed, arms raised. The applause is like a spring torrent.  
  
He rises, cheeks flushed, eyes aglow. As the crowd leaves, they congratulate him and his smile lights up the night. He is easily the most beautiful thing Fingaer has ever seen.  He called him Gûren, my heart, for that's what he was, forever and always.  
   
The audience has dispersed and his beloved flies to his arms: supple waist and a powerful back, easy laughter, fingers caressing his cheek. A whisper, “Where were you? Did you see my dance?”  
  
“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it.”  
  
“We must be careful, your father . . .”  
  
“ . . . is closeted with Annatar again –  probing the secrets of metallurgy. We have the evening.”  
  
“I don’t trust Annatar.”  
  
“I don’t trust either of them. Ada is acting strangely. And Annatar . . . there is something insincere behind that charming smile. Something does not feel right.”  
  
“You and your feelings!”  
  
“There is one good thing in this. Ada won’t catch us, not tonight.”  
  
The arms about his waist tighten, pulling their bodies together in tantalizing contact. With a knowing smile, Gûren shifts his hips against Fingaer to show his intent. Fingaer can feel him lengthen, smell his arousal.  His skin is flushed from exertion.  
  
“Do you love me?” Gûren teases. “Don’t just nod. Speak beautiful words to me. Open your heart.”  
  
“Very well then.” Fingaer draws a breath, seeking words worthy of the depth of his feelings. “I love you more than the green of summer leaves, or the rich scent of the earth, the wind in the trees, or the sighing of the surf. You are my song, my joy, my soul.”  
  
His lover laughs, then offers his mouth, sending a burning flush to Fingaer’s loins. “The poets have no cause to worry about competition,” he says, smiling. “I have but three words in reply: I want you.”  
  
“How?”  
  
A finger teases Fingaer’s lips. “In every way conceivable.”  
  
They are running, hand in hand through the starlit night, warm breeze in their faces. They reach their place, their secret bower.  He trips and they both tumble to the ground, landing in soft moss, hands in each other’s hair, mouths wide, vigorous tongues flowing together, slick and warm, rattling gasps, eager loins pressing and grinding. He pulls back to look into that face, into those green eyes smiling gently, lit with love.  ‘Take me,’ his lover says. With a sharp groan, Fingaer enters his beloved’s body, sheaths himself deep within that most blessed vessel . . . heat, hands, skin, rocking to joy. “Vanima, ithil a giliath nîn – my moon and stars,” he cries into his lover’s hair. “Never leave me, never. Promise me, no matter what happens.”  
  
“I promise.”  
  
“I’m close, so close. Gûren, I love you!”  
  
Forlornly, he heard the words echo about the stone chamber, although he could not distinguish whether he had spoken them aloud or if they were merely audible memories.  
  
Reaching under his ragged tunic, Fingaer grasped himself, finding his shaft as hard as it had been in his memory. He jerked his hand . . . one . . . two . . . three. Faster now. Ah there! Blessed release found in a slippery grip. For a moment, he was free.  
  
My love, where are you now? Off in Mandos’ halls awaiting me? Of all Sauron’s deeds, your destruction cut me the deepest. A tear escaped his burning eyes, fled down his cheek. He wiped it away with a sticky hand.  
  
Down the hall a torch appeared. And another. Hideous black shadows came marching along the wall. What was this? Something different? Slowly he stood.  
  
* * * * *  
Mairon sliced himself a wedge of the yellow cheese sealed in red wax. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes to savor its sharp, creamy taste. It was one of his weaknesses and very hard to get in Mordor. He’d tried raising a small herd of cows, but the milk did not taste the same and they sickened and died here, perhaps due to the fodder, or the water, or the air. He’d never tried any experiments to determine which. Instead, he’d had to make do with unreliable imports from the grass country. Soon, he mused, all that would change.  
  
Ráca whined and nudged him with his nose. “You want some, you overgrown pig?”  
  
“Aye,” the wolf growled.  
  
Mairon laughed, scratched behind his pet’s ears and then fed him a slice of the cheese, which the beast bolted down with a flash of white fangs.  
  
Dolgu disapproved of the plan.  Although he would never say it outright, his hints and sighs had been enough. Too bad. Dolgu was overly protective. And although that had a certain charm, it meant he didn’t think creatively enough. The more Mairon pondered the options, the more elegant the idea was. For certain, there were risks, but not unacceptable ones. Humans made a much easier target than the curséd elves. Their weaknesses were many. This would be like harpooning whales in a pond.  
  
_“Do not underestimate them,”_ the Ring warned. _“Thou art taking a dreadful chance, Lord King.”_  
  
“Hush. Cleverness can trump chance, as you well know or you wouldn’t be here,” Mairon scolded and gave the Ring a twitch. “Be alert. I shall require your help soon.”  
  
He reached for his wine cup and sipped it, noticing with pleasure how the taste of the cheese and wine blended. Ah, to indulge the senses again. For much too long, he had eschewed them while he immersed himself in the design and administration of war. Holding a mouthful of the vintage, he let it spread over his palate. Yes, this could be a pleasant respite, an intellectual challenge wedded to sensuality. Soon there would be much better sensations.  
  
Mairon returned to the yellowed scroll in his lap, which had taken some time to find in his library, and ran a finger over the title of the spell. ‘On transmogrification of fleshe: fëa to a new hröa.’ To dislodge fëa from hröa required the proper incantations and a drink of powerful herbs; then both donor and recipient must be sufficiently physically intimate to allow the fëa of one to move to the hröa of the other. With his tongue, Mairon felt the lumps in his gums where his fangs would appear, allowing him to render the victim immobile.  The incantations had not been hard to memorize, and fortunately all the ingredients for the potion had been in his larder. The pot hanging in the fireplace was simmering nicely. He leaned forward to inhale the fragrance, then wrinkled his nose. Nasty. He threw in a pinch of drake-horn, which hit with a sharp hiss, releasing a puff of smoke. Then he smiled. All was made ready.  
  
The Ring whispered, _“My King, the Númenórean is here. Art thou certain thou desirest to continue this course? For he speaketh truly that it carrieth risk.”_  
  
Mairon turned to see Dolgu entering the room, black-robed and dour, holding a chain attached to the neck of the Noldo captured so long ago from Ost-in-Edhil. Behind him stood a long-armed uruk, holding an ugly sword at the ready. Mairon beckoned them forward.  
  
“My Lord,” Dolgu said with a bow.  
  
“What took you?” Mairon asked.  
  
“We had to clean him up.” Dolgu’s lips quirked in distaste.  
  
Mairon turned his attention to the creature, which stood swaying slightly and squinting at him in the bright torchlight. His tangled, waist-length hair was wet, making it hard to tell the color, but it appeared to be dark red. His eyes, grey as rain, stared with an unhealthy look of bemused madness, as if the Valar had finally revealed their joke to him. He was wearing a simple linen shift that exposed well-formed arms and legs, if a trifle too thin. His face, ah, his face was exquisite with that fine elvish bone structure, and his lips, though cracked and swollen, were plump and artfully curved. It was clear that he had been a beauty and with a little care would be so again.  
  
“Do you know why I’ve brought you here?” Mairon asked, speaking in Sindarin.  
  
The elf licked his lips as if he would speak but could not. He coughed.  
  
“Bring some watered wine.”  
  
The uruk hastened out.  
  
“Do you know who I am?” Mairon demanded.  
  
Another cough, then a rasping voice. “. . . a fool not to know.”  
  
“Saucy,” Mairon purred. He rose and began walking around the elf, keeping him off-balance as the elf turned his neck to watch. Mairon could sense the strength of the personality. Most likely, it was what had allowed him to survive for so long. Mairon did not know whether that strength would be beneficial or detrimental for his purpose.  
  
The uruk reappeared with a server who offered him a flagon.  
  
“Not me,” Mairon said. “Him.”  
  
“Of course, Excellency,” the uruk growled, and thrust the flagon at the elf.  
  
There was that tongue again, a quick flick at the lips. The elf hesitated, then grabbed the flagon and downed the wine. He wiped his chin defiantly with the flat of his hand. “Will you finally kill me, then? By Mandos, you took your time about it.” The voice was a little stronger.  
  
“Not sufficiently cowed even after a millennium and a half of confinement,” Mairon said, tilting his head. “Interesting.”  
  
The orc hit the elf in the stomach with his armored fist and the elf dropped the flagon and fell to his knees coughing.  
  
“You will learn deference, pushdug ilid,” the orc snarled.  
  
Ráca growled and bared his teeth, looking to his Master for permission to attack.  
  
“Did I ask you to hurt him?” Mairon responded mildly. He raised two fingers. The orc’s hand flew to his throat and he made a choking sound. “I don’t want this body damaged in any way," Mairon continued over the increasingly desperate sounds. "Do you all hear me?”  
  
“My Lord,” Dolgu bowed.  
  
Mairon released the orc, who immediately threw himself on the floor and made abject squeaking noises.  
  
“You and you, leave,” Mairon said indicating the uruks. “Dolgu, take his chains off. The neck collar as well.” Dolgu hesitated. “Now!” Mairon growled.  
  
As Dolgu unlocked the chains, Mairon turned to the elf. “Don’t be so eager for your death, Noldo.  I can make it most unpleasant.”  
  
“Unpleasant.” The elf laughed softly. “I dream every day of escaping to Mandos’ halls. Therefore threats of death do not frighten me, Sauron.”  
  
Mairon flinched at the name. Sauron, the Abhorred, so the elves had called him. “You are not frightened? That is spoken from ignorance . . . what did you say your name was?”  
  
“I didn’t,” the elf replied and met his glance for the first time. There was definitely a mind in there, weakened but resistant. Mairon sent his thoughts like flames of shadow to press upon him.  
  
The elf’s eyes widened. His eyes flicked downward as he grasped the top of a chair and rocked. “One . . . two . . . three,” he murmured.  
  
“Your name, if you please,” Mairon said. “I can take it from your thoughts if I wish, but I promise you, you won’t like it.”  
  
“Fingaer,” the elf gasped.  
  
“That’s better,” Mairon said. “You see, there is no need for hostility, Fingaer Celebrimborion. I remember who you are.”  
  
“And I will never forget you!” the elf said through clenched teeth. “Although you don’t much resemble Annatar, the betrayer of my house and my city! There are no elvish words foul enough for your deeds!”  
  
“Perhaps,” Mairon said. “Would it surprise you to know they grieve me as well? Yes? Be assured that it was necessary in the great scheme of things, although I don’t expect you to understand.”  
  
The elf’s lips worked and he attempted to spit at Mairon’s face, but only managed a dry spray.  
  
“Give him some water,” Mairon said, turning away to stir the pot on the fire. He heard the gurgle of a water pitcher and the elf’s quick gulps. “Now, Dolgu, remove his garment.”  
  
“What?” The elf stepped back and set the cup down abruptly on the table.  
  
In one violent motion, Dolgu seized the neck of the elf’s shift, tore the flimsy garment in half, and threw the pieces over a chair. The elf’s body was pale, long-limbed, and beautiful as a marble sculpture. He looked stricken and suddenly quite vulnerable. Putting his hand on the table as if to ground himself, he shivered and began to rock again.  
  
Mairon’s groin tightened in anticipation. Having control over another was the ultimate aphrodisiac.  He sweetened his voice. “Come closer to the fire, Fingaer. I wouldn’t want you to become chilled.”  
                                  
“What are you going to do?”  
  
“Ah, do I now hear some fear in your voice?” Mairon moved close enough to hear his prisoner's rapid breathing. He placed a hand on the elf's shoulder and he flinched violently away. Mairon grabbed his chin. “If you don’t hold still, I’ll have Dolgu restrain you. Open your mouth.”  
  
“Why should I do anything you ask? You’ll just kill me anyway.”  
  
“Do you know that, Fingaer?” Mairon asked. “Ponder this for a moment. Why have I kept you alive all this time?”  
  
“Do you think I haven’t asked myself that very question every day since you captured me?”  
  
“Knowledge comes to those who are patient. Today you will finally discover the answer,” Mairon said mildly. He grasped the elf’s jaw and squeezed, forcing the mouth open. “Mmm, good teeth still. He's missing a molar on the top back here.”  
  
“It fell out one day,” the elf hissed. “What do you expect with the food you were feeding me?”  
  
“You seem filled out well enough. I daresay you shouldn’t complain about your treatment, when you are still here, able to speak so cockily after so many years. There aren’t many who can say the same.” Mairon slid his hands down the elf’s neck, running his thumbs over his windpipe, settling them on his chest.  
  
“Don’t touch me!” Fingaer cried. He pulled away violently, batting Mairon’s hands away. His eyes were wide with hatred.  
  
“Dolgu,” Mairon said quietly.  
  
With the speed of a striking snake, the Chief Nazgûl grasped the prisoner, pulling his arms tightly behind his back. The elf inhaled sharply in sudden pain. His bare chest heaved. Quite an appealing sight, actually. Mairon licked his lips and continued his inspection.  
  
“Turn him around and hold his hair up, Dolgu.”  
  
The elf had a good strong back. The skin was dry and rough. Oil baths should alleviate that. The muscles were still firm. Good. Mairon spanned his hands about the elf’s lithe and slender waist, then palmed the curves of his backside. Well-rounded. Perfect. Turning him back around, sliding a hand over the sharp point of a hip, Mairon spread his fingers out to test the strong, flat belly and then turned his attention to the shriveled organ below. He picked it up delicately between two fingers. It seemed adequately sized, although it was hard to tell. He said, “The skin appears chapped. Have you been entertaining yourself overly much, Fingaer?”  
  
“What else is there to do in that shithole?” the elf snarled.  
  
“Be careful or I’ll put you right back there,” Mairon said. Now, he could feel the fear flowing from the creature and he lapped it up like cream. Reaching down, he cupped the bollocks, and the elf jerked, then went very still. Mairon weighed them in his hand. “Are you fertile?”  
  
“How would I know? I sired no children, Annatar. You might remember that my choice of lovers was a source of pain for my father.  Is that what you want of me –  to breed some new abomination? Well, be forewarned, I won’t do it.”  
  
The elf’s heart was beating rapidly; Mairon could feel the pulse. “How little you know of me,” Mairon said. “I am not Melkor and did not agree with his crasser experiments.” He moved his hand upward, curled it around Fingaer’s shaft, and stroked lightly. It twitched and expanded slightly, despite the elf’s fear. A good response. “You know,” Mairon said, as malice curved his mouth, “you greatly resemble your father. He too couldn’t resist a firm hand.”  
  
The elf howled, and struggled mightily in Dolgu’s iron grip, a mad light in his eyes. Mairon smiled as he retreated a few steps. “I wondered if time had blunted your emotions. I see that it has not. Dolgu, let him go.”  
  
“My Lord?” Dolgu blinked and then, with a smirk, complied.  
  
Like an eagle, talons outstretched, the elf flew at him. Mairon raised a hand and Fingaer stopped as if he had hit a wall, then slowly dropped to his knees, hands clawing at his throat as he struggled to breathe. Ráca stood at the ready, fangs bared, a growl burbling in his huge chest.  
  
“You cannot hurt me,” Mairon said. “So do not waste your strength trying.” He waved his fingers again and heard the elf’s sharp intake of breath as he crouched down, tucking his knees under his chest and covering his head in his hands.  
  
“I want to kill you,” the elf said, his voice hissing with venom. “I want to watch you die in slow agony.”  
  
_“Thou hast chosen a mettlesome one,”_ the Ring murmured. _“Art thou still so sure of thy plan?”_  
  
The elf’s head jerked up. “Who is speaking?”  
  
Mairon picked up the ripped garment and flung it across the elf’s back. “Cover yourself and have a seat.” He indicated a nearby chair.  
  
Slowly, the elf rose.  Shivering, he wrapped the cloth about his waist and then, looking dazed, sank down in the chair. Mairon said, "Dolgu, he seems cold, could you fetch a rug for his shoulders?”  
  
Dolgu grunted and went into a nearby room. Mairon picked up the plate of cheese and offered it to the elf.  
  
Fingaer touched his throat and looked at him apprehensively. “I do not understand your actions or what you want from me, O Lord of Gifts.” The last was said quite sarcastically, but Mairon was willing to overlook it.  
  
“It is an insult to refuse hospitality, Noldo,” Mairon said.  
  
The elf took the plate, tentatively ate a slice of the cheese, and then rapidly ate another one. Dolgu returned to drop a finely-woven blanket on the elf’s shoulders. Then he stood off to the side, arms folded. Ráca sat next to the elf, red tongue lolling, watching every movement of hand to mouth.  
  
“Delicious, isn’t it?” Mairon said. “Here, I’ll get you something hot to wash it down.” He went to his small fire, picked up a ladle, and dipped steaming liquid from the pot into a beaker. Grasping it with a pair of tongs, he held it up to the light, and swirled it gently. “Do you know what this is, Fingaer?”  
  
“Do not play with me,” the elf said around his mouthful.  
  
“You are mine to play with as I will. That is a fact,” Mairon replied.  Holding the steaming beaker with the tongs, he approached and the elf shrank back from him. But Mairon went to the high table and poured a portion of the brew into the cups. Then he added wine to the mixture causing it to froth. “This is a mulled wine of sorts. I wish you to drink it with me.” He handed one of the cups to the elf, who eyed it dubiously.  
  
“What’s in it?”  
  
“It will calm your spirit, so that we may talk better.”  
  
“What do we have to talk about?  
  
“I have a task for you, Fingaer.”  
  
The elf laughed dryly. “No doubt one that I cannot refuse. How do I know this brew won’t poison me?  
  
“I shall drink it too. You cannot refuse a toast.” Mairon clicked his cup to Fingaer’s and then took a swallow. The taste was bitter. “Come, was the wine so terrible?”  
  
“I have no reason to trust anything you say,” the elf replied.  
  
“No, you do not, but then I have all the power here and no reason to lie. So hear truth now. If you drink it, I shall set you free from your dark prison.”  
  
The elf blinked. He suddenly rose, took two steps, and set the cup down abruptly on the table. “I have finally gone mad,” he said softly, “and no longer have the ability to tell dreaming from waking. Since that is the case and this dream is most unpleasant, I shall take my leave now and leap from the walls. Perhaps I’ll learn to fly before I’m dashed on the rocks.” He began to stride from the room.  
  
_“Delusional,”_ the Ring said.  
  
“What was that?” The elf whirled about. His eyes were shifting towards the whites, like those of a frightened deer.  
  
“My dear Fingaer,” Mairon moved towards the hapless creature, slowly twisting the Ring about his finger, “you hear the voice of my Ring, nothing more. I owe your family a debt of gratitude as your father helped me in the researches and experiments that created it. I infused into it great power that enables it to see the desire in the hearts of others. It can show you the path to that desire.”  
  
He held up his hand, palm outward, and the Ring suddenly blazed forth in a searing light. Dolgu cried out and flung his arm across his eyes. The elf stood still, stricken as a bird staring at a snake. The light was reflected in his eyes until they appeared to glow golden. “Drink,” Mairon commanded. He reached over and handed Fingaer the cup. Slowly, the elf raised it to his lips and downed the contents.  
  
“Good,” Mairon said. Already he could feel himself leaving his body in a kind of blurred softness, a curious double sensation. The potion burned in his gut as he began the series of incantations, his voice rising in power until it reverberated about the room. The sorcery was possessing him, sending tendrils of intention towards the elf, as potent as sex.  
  
“What is happening to me?” the elf cried. He ran a hand over his face, then turned glazed eyes on Mairon. “What have you done?”  
  
“Keeping my promise, Noldo. I am setting you free.”  
  
“Betrayer!  You never kept a promise in your life without twisting your words to suit your purpose. Is this to be my death then? Because I told you that I would welcome it. My fae shall fly to Mandos where I will be reunited with my family and my beloved. That is my desire, quite simply, and it doesn’t take your Ring to figure it out.”  
  
Defiant to the end. It was both admirable and annoying.  
  
Slowly Mairon approached the elf. “I think it only fair to explain what will happen,” he said. “You, my darling Fingaer, are being given a great honor, though I doubt you have the wit to appreciate it. Here is your destiny, the reason for your long incarceration. Your body shall become the new vessel to host my spirit. Unfortunately, my source is not explicit about what happens to the donor fëa in this procedure. Is it released to fly to Mandos, as you say, or does it remain trapped within the hröa as long as the flesh lasts? I myself do not know the answer to this. But keeping my promises is a point of honor with me. You are hereby freed from your cell in Barad-dûr, forever. Together, we shall leave this place and do great deeds, such as the harpers sing of.”  
  
“No,” Fingaer cried, his voice breaking. He stumbled backwards and the blanket slipped from his shoulders. “I wish to awaken now from this foulest of dreams. Please . . .”  
  
Mairon could feel his gums itch as the fangs erupted. The blood-lust roared through him; he sensed his prey’s heartbeat and inhaled his fear. Seizing the struggling creature in his arms, he pulled him close and whispered into his ear, “You are perfect for this task, my love. Be easy now. You need not be afraid. They tell me this will feel . . . most pleasurable.”  
  
*****************  
* fëa and hröa – Quenya terms.  fëa means soul or spirit, and hröa is the body.  The equivalent terms in Sindarin are fae and rhaw and that's why Fingaer uses the term fae.  
*glamog - orc  
*gûren - my heart in Sindarin  
*pushdug ilid - dung-filth elf in Black Speech.  Ilid is a fanon term not canon.  
*Vanima, ithil a giliath nîn - Beautiful one, my moon and stars.  Vanima is Quenya.  The rest is Sindarin.  I use the Quenya with the idea that certain words, particularly endearments, might be hold-overs from the previous language, particularly for elves of Noldorin descent.   Feel free to object.  
*Sauron’s guise as a vampire is canon.  
  
-tbc-  
 


	3. Preparing for the Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron prepares himself to meet Ar-Pharazôn and discovers he has a harder time letting go of the Ring than he’d imagined.

“Dolgu, bring me the black tunic,” Tar-Mairon called from his seat in front of the mirror. “No, idiot, not that one – the raw silk one with the gold embroidery.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” the Chief Nazgûl growled. He thought, What have I become –  a scunning lackey? A chambermaid? I, who was once a Prince of Númenor?  
  
In the seven days since Tar-Mairon had taken the new form, he'd been worse than a woman trying on a new robe for an important party. He had demanded news of the latest fashions in Ar-Pharazôn’s court and while awaiting that, had spent much time in the bath, oiling and grooming the new body. The rest of the time he had experimented with various garments, hair dressings, and cosmetics. The whole project had taxed Dolgu’s ingenuity as there hadn’t been much in the way of face paint, luxurious garments, or bath oils in the vicinity of Barad-dûr. In addition, court fashions had changed since his own days at Armenelos, not that he had paid much attention to them even when he had been a prince there. He’d had to bargain with one of the ravens to gather some information. To obtain the items his Master demanded, he’d had to a send swift horseman out to the traders at Pelargir – at best a risky venture with the Tarkîl marching towards their doors. And what reward did he have? Naught but harsh words and menial tasks. All in all, Dolgu would have rather engaged Ar-Pharazôn’s army and watched his own minions slaughtered down to the last uruk, than play personal attendant to His Excellency.  
  
Nor could he get used to Tar-Mairon’s new body. It was startling every time he looked at him expecting to see the Dark Lord, Master of Barad-dûr, and saw instead –  a wretched elf. He snarled quietly.  
  
Smoothing his scowl Dolgu entered the chamber with the requested garment held over one arm. The wolf lay sleeping on the floor, his head resting on his huge paws. He lifted his head and growled softly. Dolgu gave him a wide berth.  
  
Tar-Mairon was seated on a stool in front of his mirror wearing naught but a dressing gown. Strands of the long, coppery hair were pulled back from his face in many small braids, twined with gold cord. The rest of it, oiled and brushed bright, flowed like a river of silk down his back. He was looking with intense concentration in the mirror as he dabbed a greasy substance over his lips. Dolgu had to admit that those lips looked much better now than they had when the elf had owned them.  
  
Tar-Mairon frowned. “Still not completely healed,” he fussed. “They need to be perfect. Has Ar-Pharazôn stopped marching inland yet?”  
  
“He appears to have encamped on a hill about a week’s journey from here. His heralds are increasing their calls for your surrender. They are beginning to sound . . . irritated.”  
  
“Indeed,” Tar-Mairon chuckled. “Well, they will have to wait a little longer. I imagine the fact that we have not yet engaged his army is quite maddening.”  
  
Dolgu said, “They have sent scouts out all over the country and encountered no resistance. That may be why they’ve decided to sit down and wait. However, they are still taking all precautions. The King is well protected. I could lead a sortie out to challenge their flank – maybe catch them off guard?” He tried not to sound too hopeful. Smashing in a bunch of Tark heads would feel quite good about now.  
  
“No, let the King wonder what we are planning. I doubt he’s prepared at all for this.” Tar-Mairon waved his hand at his reflection, then drew his lips back, and rubbed a finger across his teeth, which created a squeaky sound.  
  
“When do you wish to leave?”  
  
“Tonight. We’ll travel under cover of darkness. I’ll take a small escort that will deliver me to their sentries.”  
  
“My Lord . . .” Dolgu began.  
  
“I’ve already heard your objections. Don’t question me further,” Tar-Mairon snapped. He bent back toward the mirror as he drew a kohl wand along his eyelashes. “Which do you think, Dolgu, the jet earrings or the rubies?”  
  
“Forgive me, Lord, but I am not attuned to the nuances of style.”  
  
Tar-Mairon’s glance flicked up and down Dolgu’s somber robes. “No, I gather not.” He tilted his head as he slid gold wires through his earlobes. The rubies winked and glittered in the light. Then he stood and held out his arms. “Very well, I’ve done what I can with the face. Dress me.”  
  
“Perhaps Gron would be better suited . . .”  
  
“Gron is too short and requires a stool, which is irritating because he has to keep clambering up and down. Hurry.”  
  
The wolf raised his head and yawned with a flap of red tongue.  
  
Dolgu picked up one of the garments from the pile on the chaise. “My Lord, I need to ask, how long will you be gone?”  
  
“I have no idea. Years, most likely,” Tar-Mairon said. “Intrigue takes time.” He grimaced as Dolgu shoved the black tunic over his head and roughly pulled the laces tight at the sides. “Have a care with that!”  
  
“Then who is to command . . .?”  
  
“You, my pet, will take charge in my absence.”  
  
Suffused with sudden pleasure, Dolgu paused to look at his Master. Suddenly all his effort had become worthwhile. A much desired promotion! He would be the Dark Lord in Tar-Mairon's absence, which might be for a very long time. “I’m honored, my Lord.”  
  
“Don’t become too comfortable,” Tar-Mairon said with a curl of the lip. “Be ready to receive a summons. I may need you on Númenor. If so, Khamûl will take charge.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord. What am I to do with your former body?” The flesh that had housed his Master had been lying in state, arms folded across the chest, in the chamber below them. Tar-Mairon had forbidden any disposal of it, in case the transmogrification did not take.  
  
“Burn it,” Tar-Mairon said. “It is of no further use to me.”  
  
“It shall be done, Excellency.”  
  
Then the Ring spoke up in that strange voice that had an after-effect like ringing steel. _“What is to be my fate, Lord King? For to continue wearing me is to deliver me into the hand of thine enemy.”_  
  
“Yes, I’ve thought on that,” Tar-Mairon said. “It is a problem.”  
  
This presented an opportunity such that Dolgu could not contain himself. He knelt before his Master. “My Lord, if you please, I could take the Ring. I would keep it hidden and safe for your return.” He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice.  
  
 _“Oh ho ho,”_ the Ring chuckled.  
  
Dolgu looked up and met his Master’s eyes. They glowed like fire and Dolgu realized that he’d gone too far. Suddenly, in a motion so quick it was blurred, Tar-Mairon moved.  He hooked his leg around Dolgu’s and jerked him over backwards causing him to land with a painful smack. The wolf’s wet mouth clamped none too gently about his throat.  
  
“Dolgu!” The voice cut him like shards of ice. “NO ONE wears the Ring but I. Know this, to the depths of your being, my pet. Even to THINK otherwise is not permissible. Do you understand?”  
  
Dolgu nodded ever so slightly, unable to speak.  
  
“Down Ráca,” the Dark Lord said and the wolf released him. “You have no cause for disquiet. I have thought of everything,” Tar-Mairon continued airily. “Now, finish dressing me and then leave until the sun sets. I have things to do.”  
  
Slowly Dolgu rose onto one elbow and with disgust wiped the drool away from his throat. He looked into Ráca’s maw with its lolling red tongue. The animal appeared to be laughing at him.  
  
********************  
 _“Where art thou taking me?”_ the Ring asked, in a voice rife with suspicion.  
  
“Never you mind,” Mairon returned. His metal-shod footsteps echoed as he descended the dizzying spiral stair, down and down. Would it never end?  
  
 _“I demand to know.”_  
  
“You may demand nothing!” Mairon snarled. Now that it had come to it, he didn’t know if he could really do what he intended and anger at the entire circumstance embroiled his gut. He was used to controlling events, setting them in his own pattern of how the world should be run. Like pieces on a gaming board, he wanted to see all moves and select the ones that would most advantage him. But for the first time in many years, he could not see ahead in this venture. The road was dark and uncertain. And he did not know if he could bring himself to part with his most precious creation. Curse Dolgu for expressing doubts! Curse the Edain! And most especially curse Ar-Pharazôn! Oh, the Númenórean would pay dearly for interfering with his plans in Middle-earth and for forcing this humiliation upon him. That fate was certainly in the stars.  
  
 _“Thou art planning to leave me!”_ the Ring shrilled. _“Know that once thou takest me from thy hand, thou shalt lose a goodly portion of thy power.”_  
  
“Do not presume to lecture me, the one who created you! I know everything about you!”  
  
 _“Dost thou? When hast thou removed me before?”_  
  
“As you so wisely pointed out, my pet, I cannot take you to Ar-Pharazôn and I cannot trust anyone else to watch you. Dolgu has already proven that. It would be like leaving my beautiful virgin daughter in the care of a randy old lecher. This is the only choice left in a bag of bad options.”  
  
Further and further into the bowels of his great tower, he traveled. As he descended, he could feel the anger slowly drain away, only to be replaced by a growing panic, manifested in cold sweat that pricked his face and chest. Where this fear came from he had no idea, but when he finally reached the prison level, it overwhelmed him to the point that he stopped short and leaned against the wall, scarce able to breathe.  
  
Was it the smell of the dungeon, the dust and fetid bodies that seemed to stick in his throat? Or was it the sounds – the creaking, low moans, and occasional howls? It was dreadfully familiar in the way that one sometimes feels things have happened before. Was he remembering Angband? It had been many a year since he’d been down here but it had never bothered him before. The prison was necessary to maintain discipline. He knew that, but now he was overwhelmed by anguish, such that he wanted to bolt. He felt it so strongly that he had to pause and grasp a set of iron bars to keep himself anchored. He rocked once, twice, thrice.  
  
With a roar, something huge rushed at the bars. Startled, Mairon leapt back. A cave troll. Mairon straightened. “Get back,” he cried, raising his hand and projecting his intention. The creature snarled and retreated into the dark.  
  
Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind there came wild laughter. The thought leapt unbidden. _“You didn’t plan for this did you, Sauron?”_  
  
“Who is there?” He turned his head this way and that, seeing naught but shadows.  
  
 _“Take thyself in hand, Lord King,”_ the Ring remonstrated. _“What seekest thou?”_  
  
“A suitable hiding place for you,” Mairon replied. He took a deep breath and began walking. His feet seemed to know where they were going, even if he didn’t consciously direct them. Down one corridor lit by the flickering torches, and then another. He finally came to a stop in front of a cell. It was empty. The door yawned wide.  
  
Entering that cell was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. He stood still, shaking like a rabbit until finally his anger reasserted itself. There was no reason for this! He was the Lord of Barad-dûr. Everything here must obey him: the elvish body he inhabited, his golden creation, the very stone of the tower. All!  
  
Once in the cell, he was beset again by the strange compulsion to count. He shook it off, headed for a spot that somehow he knew would have a loose stone. Crouching down, he lifted it out with a hollow, grating sound, reached into the dark hole and pulled out a soft object. He couldn’t quite tell what it was, but he knew he wanted to keep it. He tucked it into his shirt, then began to twist the Ring off his finger.  
  
 _“My Lord,”_ the Ring whimpered. _“Wilt thou truly abandon me?”_  
  
“Not forever. I shall return for you once I have dealt with the Dúnedain. Do not fear.” He caressed the smooth metal, then raised it to his lips and kissed it. This was his most extraordinary creation. It represented mastery over all living things, paid for with betrayal, destruction, and death – and yes – worth it all. Could he really do this? Could he abandon it and himself to an uncertain fate? Yes, he must. He was proud of the fact that he rarely let emotion overpower logic. He’d examined the options and this one, however unsavory, was the best one.  
  
“Listen,” he said, “you will sleep deeply and only awake when I say the words engraved upon you.”  
  
 _“I hear thee, Master. I shall sleep. A last warning, Lord King. Thou shalt never feel completely whole until such time as we are reunited. ”_  
  
“I know.”  
  
 _“Affection shall feel like a substitute for me, but it is not. Beware the elf.”_  
  
“What elf?” Mairon asked in consternation. He waited but the Ring kept silent.  
  
Mairon began tugging, but the Ring seemed stuck fast about his finger. “Let go, curse you,” he commanded. With a hiss, it slipped free. He crouched there in the dark, weighing it in his hand. It had grown most heavy. Drat the thing anyway.  
  
As he started to put the Ring into the hole, his hand jerked and closed into a fist. It was only by tremendous force of will that he relaxed his fingers. Tilting his hand, he allowed the Ring to slip from his grasp. It landed with a disquieting clatter. Quickly, he replaced the stone. Whispering cries reverberated about the room.  
  
“Hush! Now go to sleep,” Mairon said.  
  
Waving a hand in front of the stone, he set a warding spell upon it. Anyone who came here would see nothing of interest. Gratefully, he left the cell, went down the passage a short way, turned, and sent out energies searching for weaknesses in the rock. Found. He traced them back into the root of the mountain, then gave a high pitched cry. The rock groaned and cracked. He cried again.  
  
Along the corridor, a pained wailing erupted amongst the other prisoners. Some began hammering on their iron bars with a sharp _plink, plink._ A third time Mairon cried as he spoke the words of unmaking and heard another crack of stone. With a roar, a section of the wall slid over the Ring’s hiding place – burying it deep. He had to step back further as the scree rushed up against the iron bars of the cell and wait until he heard a final soft rattling of pebbles and a hiss of dust.  
  
He coughed and waved the air clear. Down the hall the torch flickered wildly.  
  
It was done. He could hardly believe it himself and the sense of relief surprised him. “Sleep well, until I have need of you again, precious one,” he whispered.  
  
He could hear the sounds of the prisoners’ agony all around and found he could no longer bear this place. “Silence!” he roared. And then he fled back up the stairs.  
  
*******************  
Moonlight etched the frost-rimed trees in shimmering silver and black. The woods seemed full of strange portents, half-seen signs that felt as ominous as crows. They were close enough now, about two leagues from Ar-Pharazôn’s encampment. Mairon could sense the scouts on the other side of the clearing, could see the gleam of their helms. Reining in his horse, he held up a hand and felt the slight rush of wind as Dolgu and the five hand-picked escorts came up alongside, their harness creaking in the cold air and their horses’ breath puffing like dragon smoke. Ráca loped alongside, his head as high as Mairon's knee.  
  
 _“Pitiful humans! Let me rip out their throats,”_ the wolf growled. He turned his yellow eyes towards Mairon, awaiting a command.  
  
"Not tonight, Ráca," Mairon replied. He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword. His horse crunched the bit.  
  
“Orders, my Lord?” Dolgu whispered.  
  
“Stay here until they’ve taken me into custody. Be sure all has gone according to plan. Then return to Mordor.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“Take care of Ráca. He’s yours now.”  
  
The wolf whined. Dolgu cast a wary eye at him.   
  
“Very well,” Dolgu said in a voice heavy with displeasure.  
  
Mairon laughed softly. “Dismiss the men from Khand and Umbar from the army and await my summons to Númenor.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord. May Melkor grant us success.”  
  
It was as close to a fond sentiment as Mairon had heard Dolgu voice. Mairon nodded. “Melkor surely owes me that at the least. Guard well my Realm until my return.” He dismounted, tossed the reins to the black-eyed lieutenant, then leaned down to pat the wolf, letting his fingers sink for a moment in the soft fur.  
  
 _“Are you leaving, Master?”_ Ráca growled.  
  
“Hush,” Mairon muttered as he scratched that place behind Ráca’s ear. He wondered if what he was feeling could be termed affection. Perhaps he was weakening with age. He looked up at Dolgu seated on the back of his huge, raw-boned black horse, a hood pulled low over his face. Mairon could see the steely glint of eyes. “My most loyal,” he purred. “I am trusting you to act in my stead.”  
  
“I am bound to your service, my Lord. Your enemies are mine,” Dolgu said and inclined his head.  
  
Mairon nodded. He grasped the bottoms of his black leather gloves, pulling them snug, each in turn.  
  
His escort raised swords in salute. Mairon turned from them, searching the wood for movement. Somewhere nearby he could hear the iron gurgle of water. The new body felt strange to him as if he was trying on a new jacket that had not been tailored sufficiently. The sight and hearing were acute but it seemed the elf had lost some conditioning. Mairon had practiced sparring to test the reflexes, but still was not completely sure how effective he would be. In the last couple of days, he had eaten more than his wont to put on muscle. Would it be enough?  
  
He strode off, keeping to the dark shadows of the trees, skirting the clearing. His great black cape billowed softly behind him. He could feel the leather satchel bound about his chest, pressed close to his skin. So much planning had gone into that. The helm weighed heavily on his head and limited his field of vision. How much easier it would be to stalk the scouts if he could become a bat or a wolf, but, disconcertingly, he had discovered that since he had removed the Ring, he could no longer shape-shift. He wondered what other powers he might have lost.  
  
He steeled himself. No more doubts. Now it had come to it. It was time to take control of his fate in a way that Melkor would never have understood because he would have deemed it weak to surrender under any circumstance short of an invasion by the Valar. Well, Mairon was no longer a sniveling servant and he had boundless faith in his own cleverness. He was eager for the hunt to begin.  
  
Like a panther, he crept towards the unsuspecting sentries until he was close enough to smell them. It was the deep hour before the dawn when men’s blood thins and their fears shape their actions. He could sense their discomfort. They were standing several yards apart on either side of the trail that went through the wood. One was blowing on his hands and the other stamped as he flapped crossed arms against his chest. Mairon licked his lips in anticipation of warm blood.  
  
“By Ossë’s arse,” one of them swore. “It seems overlong for our replacements. My feet are like ice. I could use a hot cup of wine and about a week of sleep.”  
  
“Eh well, dawn is a little ways off yet. Hold to it.”  
  
“Hard to do, Hazûn, this inactivity is maddening. Where in the fly-blown gizzard is the Zigûr’s force of goblin creatures? I looked forward to lopping heads, not coming to this Valar-forsaken spot to freeze my balls off.”  
  
“Did you have any to begin with?” There was a harsh bark of laughter from both men, then the second man continued, “To tell truth, Fermen, I’m just as grateful the Dark Interloper has chosen to hide in his mountain fortress. I have no desire to meet his ghouls in combat, not from the rumors I hear about them. I just wish his Majesty would give up and go home. I’ve a wife and kids waiting.”  
  
“Ah well, Ar-Pharazôn is stubborn as a tick. He won’t brook any competition. Not him. I expect we’ll squat down here like some farm woman taking a piss until he finally forces the Zigûr to show himself.”  
  
That’s my cue, Mairon thought, with a sardonic curl of the lip. With a soft hiss of metal, he drew his great two-handed sword, raised it to the side, and then, swift as a kite, he leapt out of the shadows towards the closest man. With a savage blow, he swept the man’s head clean off. It flew and rolled. The rest of the corpse slowly crumpled where it had stood, steam rising ghost-like from the neck as the warm blood pumped into the ground. Mairon felt a vicious glow of satisfaction. Apparently, his new body’s reflexes worked just fine.  He reached down, drew up a fingerful of the blood and popped it into his mouth, tasting the bright tang mixed with the salt of the leather glove.   
  
The other man, eyes huge with fright, backed up and fumbled at his side to draw his sword, but it was too late. Already Mairon was advancing upon him, boots crunching in the frosty grass, his sword poised right at the vulnerable point of his armor, just under his chin.  
  
“It seems fortune smiles on you this night, my friend,” Mairon purred. “If you play your next move correctly, you may yet live to see your wife and children.”  
  
*********************  
*scunning - an elfscribe invented orcish curse. The exact meaning is unknown but it’s nasty. Imagine “bloody” in its place.  
*Hazûn and Fermen are invented Adûnaic names. Since there are so few canon words in Adûnaic and I need all that I can get for main characters, I’m taking liberties.  
Zigûr - Adûnaic term meaning “wizard” and used to describe Sauron.  
  



	4. The Mysterious Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet various players in Ar-Pharazon’s court, including Amandil and Elendil.  
> Note: Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr are canon Adûnaic names for Amandil and Elendil respectively

“My Lord Aphanuzîr, wake up!  The King calls for you!”  
  
Hearing the insistent voice of the page, Amandil rose on one elbow from the warm furs.  The remnants of an unsettling dream faded into the bleakness of reality.  The tent was freezing and his bones hurt.  What could the King want at this hour? By Ossë, he was getting too old for this shite!  Groaning, he drew himself free of his bedding and swung his feet off the cot.  
  
The page stuck his curly blond head into the tent, letting in a puff of even colder air.  It was Tigôn, the son of Elendil’s friend Lord Eärdur of Eldalondë. “His Majesty wants you as soon as possible,” he said, breathlessly.       
  
“He’ll have to grant us enough time to become fit for his august presence,” Amandil growled. “Bring some water. The basin is on the stand there. And shut the sodding door-flap!”  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” the page replied.  He entered the tent, picked up the basin, and departed in haste.  
  
“Elendil,” Amandil nudged his son. “His Majesty calls.”  
  
Elendil’s face emerged from the furs, eyes still shut.  He yawned.  “Forgive me, Ada, if I’m not overjoyed at the prospect of whatever it is.”  
  
“You’re forgiven,” Amandil grunted.  He pulled on his breeches and his undertunic, then stuck his stocking feet in his boots.  Cod’s fins, it was cold! He wasn’t used to it; none of them were. Númenor was much more temperate in clime.  He had advised against starting this expedition in winter but the King thought otherwise. Ar-Pharazôn had said, ‘The ships are ready ahead of schedule, so we should go at once – we’ll catch the Dark Lord off-guard.’  Amandil snorted. This whole expedition was a waste of resources and a potential waste of lives – for what?  To satisfy his Majesty’s increasing hubris? What danger did Sauron represent to Númenor?  The King could have sent an army to guard the mines and the coastal cities whose trade they needed and that would have scotched the threat. He certainly didn’t think Sauron could be enticed from his vast fortress simply by camping their army on a hill and calling him out.  Well, no matter, they were here. Now, Amandil reckoned his task was to steer his increasingly stubborn king in the direction least harmful to Númenor, even if that meant sticking his neck out.  
   
He pulled his jerkin over his head, slung a soft, woolen cape about his shoulders, then went to the tent door and peered out.  His breath fanned like smoke in the faint morning light. Anor was just stretching her fingers over the horizon, illuminating a raft of low, mackerel clouds in pale, yellow hues. Mist floated wraithlike along the ground, slowly vanishing in the broadening light.  From their perch near the top of the hill, he could see the vast array of tents, including the ones belonging to his own host from Andúnië. Well, no need to wake his men for the King’s private audience. Apparently only he and Elendil had been called. The tents appeared to flow down the sides of the hill into the valley below, the dim light painting them in a watercolor of mounded shapes: blue, white, yellow.  Beyond them, the forest, made skeletal by winter, filled the valley out to the horizon, which was broken by the nasty, jagged silhouette of the Ephel Dúath. Amandil shivered at the sight.  
  
Attuned to the weather by years at sea, Amandil sensed a change.  He sucked briefly on a finger and then held it up.  During the night, the breeze had swung around and was coming from the west.  It brought the sea air with it; he could smell the moisture.  Snow was coming.  He sighed. More joy to add to this expedition.  
  
There seemed an unusual amount of activity for this hour.  Small groups of armored soldiers marched in formation up the hill. Several pages were running in the muddy trails between tents.  In the next moment, Tigôn nearly collided with him, carrying the basin of water, which now slopped up over the rim.  Amandil steadied him with a hand on each arm. “Set it there,” he commanded, retreating into the tent and indicating their wash stand. The boy did so and turned to go, but Amandil laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Halt a moment, Tigôn. Tell me the tidings.”  
  
“They’ve captured someone, my lord Captain.  One of the enemy.  Someone high up by the sound of it.  His Majesty wants his councilors to help decide what to do with ‘im.  That’s all I know.”  With another blast of cold air and a soft squelch of feet, he was gone.  
  
Amandil bent over and sluiced two handfuls of freezing water onto his face.  Uh!  Now that was a right rude awakening. He ran fingers through his short hair.  
  
By now, Elendil had caterpillared his long body out of his sleep sack and was rapidly dressing in the semi-dark.  “Captured someone?” he mused.  “Now, that’s a new development.  Why do I get a feeling of foreboding?”  
  
“Because this whole expedition bodes ill!”  
  
“No, it’s more than that.  I had an unsettling dream,” Elendil said.  
  
Amandil raised his head to look at his son. “So did I.  Perhaps it’s nothing more than the change in weather.”  
  
“Perhaps.”  Elendil shouldered in next to him, bathed his face, and then brushed his shoulder-length hair into place. He secured it back with a leather tie. “I could use a cup of hot wine.”  
  
“There may be some in Calion’s tent.”    
  
“Don’t let him hear you call him that,” Elendil warned.  
  
“Why not?  I’ve known His Majesty . . .”  
  
“I know, Ada, since before he could walk, since he and I played at knucklebones together.  Still, you ought to curb your tongue.  It seems he takes your counsel less well than he did in years past.”  
                                 
“What good is a King’s counselor who bites his tongue?”  
  
Elendil paused in wiping his face with a cloth. “Do I have to remind you of what happened to Arubinzad?”  
  
“No, you don’t,” Amandil said gruffly.   For a moment, the image of the former Councilor, hanging on a gibbet and covered in crows, assaulted him.  He shrugged it off.  “Are you ready?”  
  
“Tack into the wind, Captain,” Elendil returned, with a grim smile, as he tossed the towel onto their storage chest.  
  
They made their way to the top of the hill where Ar-Pharazôn had erected his great golden-hued tent painted on the sides with the royal emblem of the wings of the sea gull. They could see his banner at the top snapping in the breeze: a black field with the silver tree emblazoned upon it, the symbol that dated back to Elros Tar-Minyatur. Seeing it made Amandil feel nostalgic and hope for a quick end to this expedition.  He longed to sail for the familiar waters of home.      
  
Amandil’s face grew numb as the breeze eddied past his damp beard. Taking a piece of his cape, he attempted to pat it dry. “Wet beard,” he grumbled when Elendil lifted an eyebrow.  
  
His son laughed, which deepened the lines in his beardless cheeks.  “For once, affecting the court fashion stands me in good stead.  Though it’s been two days since I managed to shave and it feels prickly. If Lórellin were here, she’d have something to say about it.”  He rubbed his chin.  
  
“Eh, well, your wife has more good sense than this whole lot. You all look like a bunch of women,” Amandil replied.  
  
“Or elves,” Elendil said sensibly. “I rather like it for that reason, though I wouldn’t dare point that out to the King.  I expect he does it because it makes him look more youthful.”  
  
“I wouldn’t attempt to speculate on reasons for the King’s behavior,” Amandil said.  “In any case, you won’t catch me scraping my face with a knife. And I don’t care what the rest of Calion’s sycophants do.”  
  
“Hush, Ada, here comes Lord Izindor and his sons.”  
  
Amandil turned and saw the three of them – Izindor with his toothy smile and his two dour sons – coming up the path from the other direction. “Speaking of sycophants . . . ,” Amandil grumbled.  
  
Elendil prodded him hard in the shoulder. Amandil opened his mouth and then shut it. Perhaps the boy was right.  He should be more circumspect.  These were uncertain times.  And most definitely Izindor, Lord of Arandor, was not to be trusted.  He could feel it in his bones.  
  
“Good morn’, Lords of Andúnië,” Izindor said in a sweetened voice.  He gave his characteristic bow that seemed to involve his whole body in a kind of sideways wriggle.  It reminded Amandil of an eel writhing on a hook.  Izindor’s sons were following along behind.  The older one, Dulginzin, was heavy-set, wearing a wolf-fur cape over a bronze breast-plate.  He scowled at Amandil. The younger one, Mirandor, had a wall-eye, which was disconcerting because Amandil could never tell exactly where he was looking.       
                                 
“My Lords of Arandor,” Amandil said with a curt nod.  
  
Elendil’s bow was more courteously graceful and Amandil looked at him appraisingly. Elendil, his only son, was tall, taller than himself, and almost a head taller than Izindor. His eyes were steady and a thoughtful grey-green in color. The lean, boyish face he remembered had hardened into the lines of manhood, made even more apparent by the shadow of a beard.  He was always fair-spoken and sensible, a good son, and perhaps Amandil ought to listen to him more.  It seemed a strange thing for the father to heed wisdom from his offspring, but then they were both getting older. Scattered amidst Elendil’s wavy, dark hair, Amandil noticed a few strands of silver glinting in the rising light. He had not seen them before and it caused him to think of his own grizzled locks and aching joints.  There was an old saying, ‘Time is a fire in which elves burn like stone and men like wax.’ For a moment, Amandil reflected on that truth.  
   
Izindor had sidled close, interrupting Amandil’s philosophical thoughts. “It appears that we’ve all been called up early this morning,” he said.  The emphasis on the word ‘all’ suggested that he did not think Amandil normally would have been summoned. Amandil could feel his temper rising. Izindor lowered his voice, “What have you heard, Councilor?”  
  
“Very little,” Amandil replied. “It seems they’ve captured someone.”  
  
“Someone,” Izindor smirked.  “Indeed. More than just someone.  I sent a boy down to the place where they’re holding him – in the Steward’s tent, no less. He reported twenty guards around the tent.  Twenty!”  He nodded sagely.  “And they all looked scared out of their teeth.  Who do you think it might be?  Some are saying it is one of the Zigûr’s inner circle.  One of the Nazgûl, perhaps?”  He tilted his head slyly.  
  
Amandil shivered and suddenly remembered a fragment from his dream.  They were back in Armenelos under the lofty dome of the Council Chambers. He was seated at the table among the others when a large black raven flew in, perched on the King’s shoulder, and began pecking at him. Peck, peck, until rivulets of blood flowed down his chest and the bone was laid bare. Amandil stood up and shouted for someone to kill it, but no one, including the King, seemed to have noticed anything amiss, and they ignored Amandil as if he had become invisible.  Once again, the sense of desperation he had felt in the dream enveloped him.  
   
“What is wrong, Lord Aphanuzîr?”  Izindor asked.  “I should think this would not be ill news.”  
  
Elendil glanced keenly at his father. He said, “I expect it is no use speculating about what we do not know but shall find out soon enough.” He put a hand protectively about Amandil’s shoulder.  “Come, we are nearly there.”  
  
They reached the King’s pavilion.  Izindor and his sons pushed on, seemingly eager to get ahead of them into the tent.  
  
“Are you well, Ada?” Elendil asked quietly.  
  
Amandil straightened his shoulders, shrugging off his son.  “Well enough, aye.  It’s nothing. Shall we go and dance to this tune?”  
  
They presented themselves to the guards at the door of the tent. One of them whisked aside the flap and they passed through the outer foyer before entering the main tent held up with massive support poles.  Lit with lanterns and numerous braziers, it was pleasantly warm.  Looking around, Amandil was impressed at how well appointed it had become in a short space of time.  Banners hung from the ribs high overhead, the one in the center emblazoned with the heraldry of the King. Arrayed on either side were those of the lesser houses. Amandil recognized his own Andúnië banner: blue with the white ship following Eärendil’s blazing star. The floor was strewn with evergreen needles, creating a pungent smell of pine. Wooden folding chairs were set up around the perimeter.  
                 
There were about twenty-five men in the tent, including ten lords from the various regions of Númenor.  Most were standing in small clumps, quietly talking. He saw Ikar-lak, one of the Bawîba Manô, Eru’s high priest of the sect of Manwë, wearing his feathered cape and the helm shaped like an eagle’s open beak from which his face emerged as if he’d just been swallowed. He was speaking to Azgarad, the King’s Steward, the second most powerful man in Númenor.     
  
In the center space, surrounded by servants and members of his entourage, the King was seated in a large carven oak chair, his elbows on arm-rests and his legs akimbo, firmly planted on the ground. He was a big man with a well-muscled body, maintained through rigorous exercise. His curly, walnut-brown hair was cut just below the chin. On his head sat the golden diadem of kingship with its beautifully wrought wings of the seabird.  He wore dangling earrings in a style widely mimicked by his courtiers, and a wool tunic, full-sleeved, dyed a rich purple and embroidered with gold and silver thread in a floral pattern.  His legs were encased in tight fitting fawn-colored leather breeches and draped about his shoulders was a costly short cloak of spotted lion’s skin.  
  
The King's new cupbearer from Umbar, Sûla, a comely young man with long black curls, was pouring a draught of wine, a picture of grace as he tilted up the jug. Ar-Pharazôn took the proffered cup and then fondled the young man’s cheek with a jewel-encrusted hand. They exchanged secret smiles and Amandil wondered if that one had warmed the King’s bed last night. Amandil scowled.  He took the offense to his Queen personally.  
  
As he and Elendil entered, they passed a servant standing by a steaming kettle hanging from a tripod over a small brazier. Amandil inhaled deeply.  Ah, mulled wine.  He nudged Elendil, who smiled.  The servant dipped up a mugful and handed it to him; another gave him a thick crusty slice of bread.  “Blesséd be to Eru,” Amandil intoned. "And blesséd be the Valar." He pinched off a piece of the bread and dropped it in the cup as tribute. Elendil did likewise.  Amandil took a grateful gulp of the hot liquid, which tasted spicy and somewhat bitter, and immediately served to warm his belly. Sopping a corner of the bread in the brew, he took a bite.  As he did so, he noticed a young soldier in full armor, standing off to the side.  There was something about the drawn expression on his face that caused Amandil to look at him again.  His glance was intercepted by the King's sharp look.  
  
Speaking in his deeply resonant voice, Ar-Pharazôn said, “Come, Aphanuzîr, my friend, sit over here.” He pointed at a chair near him on the other side of Lord Azgarad’s seat.  Amandil felt a momentary pride in being favored. “And you also, Nimruzîr.” The King indicated Elendil. “Sit, all of you. It is time. We have grave matters at hand.”  
  
The crowd rapidly sorted itself out into the light wooden chairs that were gathered in a large circle around the King.  The men leaned forward, faces intent.  It seemed all had heard rumors.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn said, “When the Dark Lord, Enemy of All Free Peoples of Middle-earth once again began building his army, making false claims, and threatening our rightful dominion, I felt that something must be done to stop him. The same as did my fore-fathers in years gone. All too well we know the penalty paid in the past for standing idly by,  watching as Sauron secured his hold on region after region, strangling the trade and increasing his power. My esteemed Councilors and Retainers, I too am a student of history and know of what deeds our foe is capable.  At my father’s knee, I heard the tale of the downfall of Ost-in-Edhil.  And so I deemed it wise to begin building our ships and recruiting an army large enough to outdo him before it was too late.”  
  
Amandil shifted uncomfortably.  Why did the King feel a need to restate what they all knew?  He looked sidelong at Elendil who, engaged in biting his thumbnail, eyed him back.  
  
“There were some who counseled against this action, saying it would be a waste of manpower, that likely many would die unnecessarily.”  Here he looked directly at Amandil, who felt his face grow hot. “There were others who claimed that marching towards Mordor and calling on the Zigûr to show himself would prove a waste of time, that we should destroy Pelargir to cut off his supply route. But that would have been a diversion from our goal and most certainly a waste of lives.”  Here he turned to look at Izindor, who smiled unctuously and wriggled in his seat.  “And even our most learnéd priest, with his ear to the lips of the Bârî an-Adûn,  predicted that the winds would not favor us.”  Amandil noticed the shifting of heads to look at the glowering Ikar-lak.  “And yet, after the initial calm, the winds brought us swiftly to Middle-earth.”  At this, the King rose from his seat. “It seems the Bârîm an-Adûn have instead blessed this course of action. The dissenters have been proven wrong and my judgment has been correct. In future, I urge you to remember this.”  He paused, surveying their bemused expressions with the delight of a magician about to pull a sleight-of-hand.    
  
“My Lord, we honor your wisdom and have followed you without complaint. If you please, what has happened?” asked Rothîbal, Lord of Ondosto, a great burly man, who, like Amandil, still wore a beard. Perhaps he had something to prove as he had an unusually high voice for a man of his size. Contrary to his contention, Amandil remembered that, in private conversations, Lord Rothîbal had, in fact, complained loudly about the expedition.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn said, “My Lord Rothîbal, you are like the man who always wants to eat his sweet course before the meat.”   There was a general chorus of chuckles.  The King strode into the circle, spreading his arms in a grand gesture. “Very well, then.  We have captured someone of great import.” He paused, looking each of them in the face, relishing their polite impatience.  “I think the story should be told as it occurred,” he said and beckoned to the soldier who had remained standing on the side.  “Here is the one who had the honor of capturing our . . . prisoner.  Hazûn, tell us what happened.”  With a swirl of his spotted cloak, the King returned to his seat.  
  
The soldier came forward, hesitantly.  He bowed deeply before the King, then stood at his side facing an intent audience.  To Amandil, the man looked pale as wheat porridge.  He cleared his throat.  “My Lords, this morning early, another member of my cohort and I . . . well, we were stationed on the path at the copse of wood two leagues east of here.  Nothing had happened all night and we were awaiting change of guard, when suddenly, without warning, and in truth, quiet as a cats’ paw, a phantom all in black appeared.”  He winced.  “Before we could draw swords, he done in Ferman, uh, that was my partner.  Took his head clean off with one swipe – most savage.  Then, he was on me like a fox on a coney and I thought sure it was my last hour.  But he stopped with the point of his sword at me throat and said he would grant my life if I did as he said.”  
  
“What did he ask of you?” said Ikar-lak.  
  
“Your worship,” Hazûn said, with another slight dip of the head as he acknowledged Manwë’s priest. “He said he was high up in the Lord Annatar’s service, that’s the name he used, and that I should take him back to the camp, not disturbing anyone, and place him in a tent, then alert the King.  When I asked him who he was, he said he would reveal that in time, but it’d be worth my while to do as he said.  When I resisted, he . . . .”  He paused and swallowed.  “He hurt me.”  
  
“How?” Amandil interjected and heads turned to look at him.  
  
“My Lord, it’s hard to describe.  Nothing, I mean, he didn’t touch me, but he looked at me and I saw. . . the most terrible things.  I think if he’d wanted to kill me by magic, he could have. So, I said, ‘Aye, I’ll do what you want.’  Then, he submitted quietly enough, but did not allow restraints, and instead marched me in front of him.”  
  
“By Manwë’s breath, who captured whom?” Ikar-lak said.  
  
Hazûn lowered his gaze, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic.  
   
“You did very well under such duress, soldier,” the King interrupted. “Say on.”  
             
“We arrived just before dawn when the watch had not yet called the change and were met by the guards below the hill.  They, it was, who put him in the guard tent.”  
  
“Did he ever reveal who he was?” Lord Rothîbal asked.  
  
“Nay.”  Hazûn looked uncomfortable.  
  
“What did he say then?” broke in Dulginzin, Izindor’s oldest son. His father smiled ingratiatingly at the King and then glowered at his son.  
  
“My Lords, I admit this is most curious, but I don’t exactly recall.  Merely to say that our walk back was not . . . unpleasant.”  
  
There was a murmur of voices.                       
  
“Explain,” the King said.  
  
“I mean that once I did as he asked, he become quite charming.  Asked about me family. I found myself . . .um, talking to him.”  Hazûn seemed almost embarrassed.  Amandil looked hard at him, feeling there was more that he wasn’t  owning.  
  
“This doesn’t sound like one of Sauron’s minions,” Rothîbal interrupted.  “Who is he, then?”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn smiled like a cat crouched over a bowl of cream.  “Lord Azgarad,” he said.  “Please tell us about your audience with our prisoner.  You are dismissed, soldier.  Get some sleep.”  
  
“Your Lordship.” Hazûn bowed, and with a glance at all of them, left.  
   
Lord Azgarad rose.  He was a man of forceful presence, with a distinctive, hawk-like nose, deep under-eye circles, and a receding chin, which he covered with a patch of beard. Unlike the shorter tunics that were fashionable, he wore a full-length robe in deepest blue, embroidered with silver threads.  “As it pleases your Majesty,” he said.  “When our young . . . hero,” he waved at Hazûn’s retreating form, “appeared with his report, I had the prisoner searched for weapons, and removed to one of my tents, where I went to interrogate him. When I entered the tent, I saw a tall figure dressed in black, wearing a mighty iron helm that nearly covered his face.  He greeted me and asked to see the King.  I told him that would depend on what he had to say to me.  After some unsatisfactory back and forth in which neither of us would give in to the other, he seemed to snarl in frustration and said, “Then, convey this to your King, that it is none other than the Lord Annatar, Master of Middle-earth, who wishes to speak to him.”  
  
There were gasps from all sides. Amandil felt as if the air had been quite suddenly sucked from the room.  He looked about at the dismayed expressions. Lord Azgarad’s lips quirked and there was a grim satisfaction on his brooding face.  He continued.  “Sauron, or as he wishes it, the Lord Annatar, said his force and ours were on a par and that a war would be a waste of life and resources. He felt some other agreement could be worked out between us.  He asked again for an audience with the King.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn’s chest puffed like a pheasant. “It appears that my tactics have been successful after all, and we have frightened our Enemy from his stronghold – with only one casualty. What say you all to that?”  
  
“It is miraculous,” Izindor said, with a wriggle. “Your Majesty, we could not have hoped for better.”  
  
Amandil found himself rising to his feet.  Just in time, he bethought himself and made a bow towards the King.  “Sire, I beg of you to consider our next steps carefully.  If this truly is Sauron, then the past has shown us that he is capable of great trickery and terrible deeds.  We must be cautious.  The first thing we must assess is how do we know his claim is valid?  He could be a spy, one of the Dark Lord’s servants, as has been suggested? Indeed, I would be amazed if the Dark Lord himself were foolhardy enough to walk right into our camp – alone.”  
  
“Ever the skeptic, my dear Aphanuzîr,” the King said. “In truth, I counted on that. The answer is that I do not yet know if the claim is valid, nor do I know the best course of action.  That is why you,” he spread his arms wide to include them all, “are here.  We must consider what to do next.”  
  
Satisfied that the King seemed to be acting prudently, Amandil sank back into his chair as a cacophony of voices erupted.  Men turned to each other and were arguing.  Ar-Pharazôn let it go on for a bit, then nodded to Azgarad, who grabbed his staff of office and thumped it on the ground.  “Silence!  What are we, a pack of wild dogs?” he cried.  
  
“I say we execute this prisoner and so be rid of the problem,” Lord Rothîbal shouted.  
  
“Do you not know your history, Rothîbal?” Amandil retorted.  “If it is indeed Sauron, the Maia, his spirit cannot be killed.  If it is one of the Nazgûl, well, it’s said they are undead, which would also make them rather hard to kill.  I don’t know how to kill a wraith.  Do you?  And if it is a mortal, some lieutenant of the Dark Lord, executing him will only serve to make his master angry and possibly bring his whole force down on our heads, which he may be planning in any event.  Has anyone scouted for an invasion force in the vicinity?”  
  
Azgarad nodded. “Our scouts should have notified us if there was a force massing. To be sure, I’ll send out a sortie now.”   He motioned to one of the armed guards who went out in haste.    
  
Then Elendil stood and bowed towards the King. His voice was quiet, but commanding and all stopped their whispers to listen.  “My Lords, it would be an evil deed to kill a messenger.  We men of Anadûnê have never behaved in such a manner.  I have another proposition.”  
  
“What is it?” Ar-Pharazôn asked.  
  
“I think we should hear what he has to say.”    
  
“I agree,” the King replied.  “Have him brought in.”   He waved at Lord Azgarad, who bowed and left. A few men opened their mouths, seemingly to object, but the King frowned at them and they all grew silent.  
  
Elendil seated himself again. Amandil leaned over towards his son.  “Are you sure about this, ion nîn?”  
  
“Nay, Ada,” Elendil replied. “Of course not.  But I imagine whatever this enemy has to say is better said in the open before us all than behind closed doors for any one of us.”  He raised an eyebrow.    
  
Amandil patted his son’s knee. “Smart lad. Keep your eyes open.”  
  
Amandil saw Sûla coming around with the wine jug.  “Care for more, Lord Aphanuzîr?” he said in his light voice and Amandil lifted his cup.  The boy stopped to fill it.  He was wearing a subtle perfume of musk and roses, which, when he leaned close, gave Amandil the sensation of something dark, illicit, and arousing. Annoyed, Amandil wrinkled his nose and started to pull away, but Sûla dropped his head and spoke into his ear.  “His Majesty bids me tell you to speak your mind to this creature.  Attempt to draw him out.  We are playing a game of cat and mouse here.”    
  
Amandil raised his eyes and saw the King looking back at him. His expression was that of the boy Amandil remembered from years past, looking up at him over a game of bones when there was a large wager on the table, somewhat unsure of himself and seeking a hint from his mentor.  He nodded at the King.  Then he caught Ikar-lak’s glance and realized that the priest had noticed the exchange from his seat on the other side of the King.  Always there were eyes at court – watching.  Amandil didn’t remember that it used to be that way. The others all around him were busily engaged in discussions among themselves and calling for more wine. Amandil sighed.  Things were changing.  He could feel it in the air. Whatever the outcome of this morning’s work, he didn’t think it would be good.  
  
Then the curtains parted and Lord Azgarad entered.  “He is here,” he said in a grim voice.  
  
A sudden hush came over the group.  Amandil heard a faint clink of chains and then a tall black-cloaked figure flanked by two guards came into the room.  His wrists had been linked together by metal cuffs attached to a span of fine chain but the restraint did little to allay the sense of fear that purveyed the room.  This was clearly a person of power, whatever else he was.  
          
The guards moved to the side, holding their swords at the ready, leaving the messenger standing by himself in the midst of the circle.  His high helmet, black with iron spikes jutting from the top, gave the illusion of height, but Amandil didn’t think he was any taller than his son.  The helm had a nose-guard and flaps that covered his cheeks, but his mouth and chin were visible. Surprisingly, those features appeared to be the face of a young man: the chin was sharp and lips, well, they were decidedly sensuous.    
   
The dark figure bowed towards the king. The bow was extremely graceful and ended with a kind of quirky side-ways tilt of the head.  “King Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor, I presume,” he said. “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance at long last.”  
  
The voice, oh blessed Valar, the voice was darkly sweet and melodious, like honey dripping from the comb.  It sounded fair and reasonable, and raised Amandil’s hackles in the way of a dog scenting a fox at the gate.    
  
The king rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Who are you?”  
  
“I would have thought your Steward relayed that information?”    
  
“He did.  I want to hear it from your lips.”  
  
“Very well,” the dark messenger said.  “Over the years, I have acquired many names, some more pleasant to my ears than others.  In my early days in Aman, I was known as Mairon, the Admirable.  To the elves of Eregion, I was called Annatar, Lord of Gifts, because I brought them knowledge. As a devotee of Aulë, the Smith, they also called me Aulendil or Artano, meaning high smith. In your language, I am Zigûr, the sorcerer.”  
  
The eyes gleamed from within the shadow of the helm as if assessing the King. Amandil thought, could it be true?  Was this really Sauron, the Dark Lord? Was the famous Ring hidden under those black gloves?  He shivered.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn said, “So you claim to be the Dark Lord, Bane of the Elves, Master of the One Ring?  I find myself . . .  honored by your trust in coming alone to my lodge as certainly your deeds merit swift retribution.  Tell me, what do you hope to accomplish by coming here?”  
  
“Did you not send forth your heralds calling on me to surrender, O King of Númenor? And so, here I am.  I would say in defense of my deeds that right or wrong in these matters is always in the eye of the beholder.  What harm have I done you and your subjects?  I am not the one encamped on your doorstep with a great army, threatening death and enslavement.”   His tone was sweet but with an underlying sting.  
  
“No, you have merely threatened all Free Peoples of Middle-earth with death and enslavement,” the King replied. “It was not I who began this war, which you have been waging for countless years.  However, I shall not bandy words with you, but merely remind you whose lodge you currently stand within.”  
  
“I am well aware of the precariousness of my situation,” the messenger replied, with a curl of the lip. “Very well, shall we get to the heart of the matter? My spies have discovered the size of your great army and my captains and I have determined that we are a near match.  So . . . we can choose to battle each other until we’ve ground both our forces into dust, or, for a change, we can try negotiations at the outset.  The latter option is so much more civilized, don’t you think?”  
  
Amandil stirred. “How do we know you are who you claim to be?” he said.  
  
The dark head swiveled around to look at him; Amandil shrank from the malice in the eyes peering from the slot in the helm.   Then the creature smiled charmingly.  “Who speaks?”  
                              
“I am . . . Aphanuzîr, Lord of Andúnië.”  
  
“Ah, Aphanuzîr, Amandil in the elven tongue,” said the creature.  “I have heard of you. It’s said you are a great captain of the sea.  What proofs of my identity do you require?”  
  
“Show us your Ring,” Amandil said.  
  
The messenger chuckled.  “That trinket?  It no longer served its purpose; I have destroyed it.”  
  
“What?”  There were surprised gasps all around.  
  
The messenger pulled at the fingers of his black leather gloves, peeling them off.  Tucking the gloves into his belt, he then showed them slender, long-fingered hands, devoid of ornament.  
  
“Then how do we know you are indeed Sauron, the Fell?” Amandil demanded.  
  
“My King, do you always allow your subjects to speak so freely?” the dark messenger asked.  
  
“My Councilors are free to speak in my realm, and it is a fair question,” the King said. “Answer it.”  
      
“Very well then.”  The messenger raised his hands and suddenly there was a movement of air, causing the lamps in the tent to flicker.  A whirlwind kicked up.  Amandil saw a vision of a huge fortress hewn from the living rock, vast and dark.  The image pulled away from the fortress to reveal three vast mountains which belched a thick, black smoke. Above them, dragons flew, tiny in the distance, like undulating worms with wings.  Firelight glinted off the scales of their bellies.  
“Thangorodrim,” Sauron intoned.  
  
The image shifted into scenes of teaming battlefields.  Elves wailed, orcs screamed, balrogs cracked their whips. Fire and destruction. Amandil became aware that all around him were frozen in their seats, staring in horror.  The image faded. And before his eyes, the tall figure appeared to grow.  A dark cloud gathered about him, and immense wings unfurled from his body, spreading from one end of the tent to the other. Amandil suddenly had no doubt that he was looking at an incarnation of Sauron, the Abhorred.  He heard Elendil groan. All around, men covered their eyes. Amandil felt sick.  
  
“Enough!” Ar-Pharazôn cried.  
  
The image withered away like a wisp of smoke, and the Dark Lord was left standing there quietly, shrunk down to size, with an amused expression.  “Was that sufficient proof?”  
  
The King replied,“I know of none save a wizard who can conjure such images. We will take your word that you are Annatar.  Do you really expect us to believe that you offer peace and friendship after what you did to the elves?  You must think us fools!”  
  
“No doubt it is too soon for friendship,” Sauron said, unruffled.  “I was thinking more of dividing Middle-earth between us, enabling peaceful co-existence between our nations.”   He reached for something hidden under his cloak.  Swiftly, both soldiers raised their swords.  “Be easy,” Sauron chuckled.  “It’s just a pouch.”  He brought out a thin leather satchel tied with ribbon and handed it to one of the guards.  “Here, King of Númenor, are some maps on which we could redraw the boundaries between our kingdoms. I’m sure we can work out an agreement that seems fair.”    
  
The guards handed the folder to Azgarad, who opened it up and pulled out some detailed maps.  Under them were some sketches.   “What are these?”  The Steward asked.  
  
Sauron tilted his head. “Oh, how did those get in there?” he said smoothly.  “Those are drawings for my latest war engine, an improvement on the catapult.  You’ll notice the greater range and striking force. I have already built a prototype. You see, I have much to offer you.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn bent to look at the drawings along with Azgarad.  His eyebrows lifted. “Interesting,” he murmured.     
   
Then Ikar-lak, Manwë’s priest, said, “I find your eagerness to offer us designs for superior weapons of war very suspicious.”  He turned to the king.  “Indeed, how do we know his claims for the size of his military force are accurate?  The eagles told me it was a fraction the size of ours.”  
  
“Can the eagles see under the ground?” Sauron asked, putting his hands on his hips.  
  
Amandil frowned.  That hadn’t come up as a possibility in any of the discussions and it should have.  
  
“What do you propose then?” Ar-Pharazôn said.  
  
“May I approach?” Sauron asked.  His beautiful lips were curved upward in amusement.  
  
There was a silence. The King was staring at him, seemingly mesmerized by his mouth.  “Remove your helm first,” the King said suddenly.  
  
“I beg your pardon?” Sauron replied.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn said,  “As a courtesy to me. It is disconcerting to talk to a . . .mask.”     
  
“Very well.” Sauron unbuckled the chin strap, slowly lifted the heavy iron helm from his head, and handed it to one of the guards. His hair, released from the confines of the helm, cascaded down over his shoulders nearly to his waist, reflecting the light like a shield of dark, burnished copper.  There was a collective intake of breath in the room.  
  
Sauron was painfully, exquisitely beautiful.  
                              
“Ada, he looks like an elf,” Elendil whispered.  
  
Indeed he did, an elf with a sharp chin, high, molded cheekbones, a strong nose that flared slightly at the nostrils, and lips that elicited immoral thoughts. Strands of hair were pulled away from his temples, braided and twined with gold thread, revealing ears that tapered to slender points like willow leaves.  His large, almond-shaped eyes were sensuously lined with kohl, which brought out their striking golden color. Disquietingly, the pupils were elongated, like a cats’.  Annatar indeed.  The tales were true, then. Had this been the guise that had lured Celebrimbor to his doom?  Amandil could well imagine it, even though he, himself, was not enticed by a male form.  But there were some who were.  
   
“By the Valar,” murmured the King in open-mouthed astonishment. "How can this be?"  
  
The King’s admiring gaze shifted into something else, something greedy. Sauron lowered his eyes, seemingly in deference, but not before Amandil caught the smirk: a brief, cruel bending of the lips. Sauron was playing with them just as if he were a great panther letting a mouse run between his claws. Amandil could not allow it. He lurched to his feet, knocking over his wine cup.  
  
But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Sauron said in purring tones, "I gather my appearance surprises you?  I learned many things at Melkor’s knee, including how to regenerate my form.” He smiled with a pretty show of teeth. “So, your Majesty, do you wish to know the secret of eternal youth?”  
  
*******************             
                                          
Names:  
Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr are canon Adûnaic for Amandil and Elendil respectively.  
Tigôn, Arubinzad, Dulginzin, Mirandor, Ikar-lak, Rothîbal, Hazûn are all elfscribe-invented names.  
Izindor and Azgarad are also invented but have canon roots.  Izindor comes from “izindi” meaning “straight” and Azgarad from Azgara, meaning “to wage war.”         
Sûla is canon Adûnaic meaning “trump.”  
Bawîba Manô - the words are canon Adûnaic meaning “wind” and “spirit” however I put them together.  
Bârî an-Adûn - Adûnaic for Valar, meaning Lords of the West  
Bârîm an-Adûn - also means Valar, but is the subject of the sentence.  Thanks Mal!  
Anadûnê - Númenor  
Lórellin -  Elendil’s wife, an elfscribe-invented character.  She is named after the lake in Valinor where Estë rests.     
          
Canon notes:  At this point, Amandil is about 233 years old and Elendil is 143.  But the Numenoreans were long-lived and Elendil died at age 322. Therefore, I'd say at this point in the story he's about the equivalent of  a man in his late 30s-early 40s.  
Also, I’ve had conversations with my beta, Malinornë, about worship on Númenor.  Text in the Silm says that Númenóreans worshipped Eru Iluvatar until Sauron arrived and introduced Melkor worship.  However, there are a number of indications that the Valar and some Maiar such as Ossë and his wife Uinen were also reverenced, for example fixing the oiolairë branch onto the prow of a boat for protection.  Because I am envisioning Númenor as like an ancient Mediterranean civilization, it works better for my story to suppose that although the main diety is Eru, there are sects who venerate members of the Valar and Ossë/Uinen—just as a Christian sect might focus on a particular saint, such as the Franciscans, or a Greek sect might worship Dionysis.  
-tbc-             
 


	5. Taking the Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron (Mairon) begins his seduction of the King and we learn more about Sûla, the courtesan.

Mairon shifted, trying to get comfortable.  The eastern side of the tent was glowing golden with the morning sunlight, but it was still quite cold within.  The guards had chained his wrists together and then hoisted his arms overhead with another chain that attached to one of the support ribs holding up the roof of the tent.  They had allowed him a stool to sit upon, and he could rest his arms by leaning his weight against the chain.  His feet were chained together as well, with a short span between them.    
  
Mairon hated being chained and he hated being confined in a small tent.  It was making his skin crawl.  He practiced breathing deeply and thinking of nasty things to do to the guards who stood at the door, watching him warily.  One of them, a man named Dâur reminded Mairon of a weasel with twitching whiskers; the other guard, named Hozdûnik, a man with craggy cheeks, stared at him with a mixture of loathing and lust: two emotions Mairon knew well how to manipulate. He had taken to calling them Weasel-face and Leering Boy.  A sense-probe confirmed their fear, their weak minds, even though he could no longer read their thoughts without the preparation of the spell circle—another result of discarding the Ring.  He had discovered through experimentation that he could send suggestions to them. Undoubtedly, in time he could make them do whatever he wished, including unlocking his restraints, but that ability needed to remain hidden.    
  
The tent had little in the way of furniture or anything to look at.  However, Mairon was sufficiently amused by recalling the shocked consternation on the counselors’ faces when he’d said that he could make them immortal. The King’s longing expression had told him everything he wanted to know–Ar-Pharazôn was taking the bait.  
                                  
The King had listened to Mairon’s proposal that they divide up Middle-earth, argued about some of the specifics, and then said he would discuss it with his counselors.  Throughout the conversation, Mairon had felt the King’s eyes drinking him in like he was a forbidden intoxicant. It had been all he could do not to laugh in the King’s face.  
  
Having considered the situation, Mairon concluded that no matter what the Númenóreans decided, he would win.  If they accepted his division of the lands, they would return to their little island, and he would be free to continue extending his control just as if they had never invaded Middle-earth.  If they took him back to Númenor as a prisoner, he could work his plans from within.  Executing him was the least acceptable outcome: painful and inconvenient. He liked the new body and if they destroyed it, well, it would take years to gather his spirit again, but even that wouldn’t be a permanent defeat.    
  
However, it was still a delicate point in time; he must be patient and endure these inconveniences . . .  these humiliations.  He would remember them later.  But by the Door of Night, it was taking them long enough to decide what to do. He was becoming most uncomfortable from several quarters.  
  
“Hoi! You! I need to get out of this.” Mairon jerked at the chain and the guards looked at him stupidly.  Idiots! He might have to try sending a thought suggestion after all.  
                          
The sound of heavy boots and the clink of armor outside.  A voice called, “Open up for the King!”     
  
Ah, at last.    
  
The guards swept the tent flap aside. Dipping his head under the low opening, the King entered.   His face was blandly handsome: square jaw, intense blue eyes. For a moment he stood looking at Mairon, then he rubbed his hands together.  “It’s too cold in here.  Get us a brazier,” he said to one of the guards.    
  
Mairon lowered his eyelids alluringly and pitched his voice to sound like floating silk.  “A brave deed, my King, coming here by yourself. I sense fear from everyone else.”  
  
“Tell me, _should_ I be afraid of you?” Ar-Pharazôn asked.    
  
“Examine the facts for yourself, Lord King.  I came to you alone, trusting in your reputation for fair dealing when I have the means for surrounding this encampment and killing all of you.”  Mairon’s lips quirked.  “I had imagined this would be a civilized discourse, for such is the reputation of Anadûnê.”  He yanked on the chain over his head.  “Instead, I am treated like a wretch: chained, given neither food nor drink, and not even provided with means for certain . . . um . . . bodily functions.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn blanched. “That had not occurred to us.  We know so little about you.”  
  
“Then, be assured, in this body, I have all the same needs as you.  All of them.”    
  
Mairon looked into the King’s eyes, then projected a single image: his head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut, and mouth dropping open in ecstasy.  It was so brief that he knew Ar-Pharazôn would never suspect the source and would think he’d imagined it.  The King’s eyes lost focus for a moment. Mairon kept his expression neutral. He liked this game.  
  
Several servants bustled in, carrying between them an iron brazier of hot coals, which they set in the center of the tent.    
  
The King said gruffly, “Bring us food and wine . . . and a chamber pot.”  He looked at Mairon.  “I’ll just step outside for a moment, shall I?”  
  
Mairon raised his hands making a harsh chinking sound.  “I’d be obliged if they would unfetter my hands . . . unless, of course, you want to hold it for me.”  His mouth quirked.  
  
The pause told him he’d ruffled the King’s sensibilities, and, most probably, had excited his imagination.    
  
“Since you are the one chained, it would be wise to be _much less insolent_!” Ar-Pharazôn punctuated the final three words with an almost crone-like shake of his finger.  He turned on the servant.  “Well, free his hands!  I’ll be back shortly.  We have some things to discuss.”  
  
Weasel-face unlocked the cuffs and Mairon dropped his arms and rubbed his wrists.  He stood and shuffled, clanking, over to the pot.  Lifting his tunic, he started to untie his breeches and then noticed that Leering Boy, the craggy-cheeked guard was watching.    
  
“Yes, I have one,” Mairon said.  “Do you want to see it?”    
  
“Uh, nay,” the man grunted and shifted his eyes while Mairon got on with it.  
  
“Much better,” Mairon sighed in relief as he fixed his clothing and sat back down on the stool.  He grinned at the man.  “Did you enjoy your eyeful?  Uncommonly large, isn’t it?”  
  
“Shut your mouth,” Leering Boy muttered.  
  
The King returned, followed by servants carrying a small table, wine, bread, and a roasted quail stuffed with shallots, corn bread, and raisins. It smelled divine.  Mairon was surprised to find that he was hungry and he set to with enthusiasm.  
  
“You’re not what I would have expected,” Ar-Pharazôn said, leaning back in his chair and cradling a cup of hot wine in his large, bejeweled hand.    
  
“What did you expect?”  
  
“I don’t know.  Not . . . this,” he replied, waving vaguely at Mairon. “Nothing about you is as reported.  You seem very reasonable, not . . . an insane fiend.”  He stopped as if wondering if he should have spoken so freely.  
  
“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Mairon replied. “You may find the rumors of me don’t match the reality.  Fear makes people see monsters where there are none. Fear and ignorance.”  
  
“That is so,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  “But if you are telling me that all the tales of your deeds are untrue, I’ll find that hard to believe.”  
  
“No doubt your tales come from the elves, who have reasons for hating me. But as I said, there are two sides to every story. If you give me an opportunity, I could tell you my side and you might decide that I am right.  I find the elves insufferably arrogant, convinced of their own superiority because they are favored by the Valar. But they are stagnant as a race with no ambition beyond composing more endlessly boring songs to that bitch Varda. Melkor himself often told me there was more promise for growth and innovation among the Edain. Tell me, are your people not estranged from the elves?”  
  
“Indeed,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “Through no fault of our own. For many years now they have not deigned to visit our shores nor hold any concourse with us.”  
  
“Then perhaps you might find that we have much to offer one another, for I too believe in the promise of men. The elves have no future in Middle-earth, even if Gil-galad thinks he has a permanent foothold.  As the years pass, more of them depart for Aman than are born.  It doesn’t take a wizard to figure out the end result of those numbers.”    
  
Mairon smiled at him and the King’s face relaxed into a near-smile of his own.  Good. Ar-Pharazôn seemed to be warming up to him.  
      
“My father used to say that the first men to encounter elves were primitives who were just learning to crawl up from the mud.”  The King steepled his fingers together. “The elves with all their power and knowledge overawed them, so they treated them with the reverence due Eru, until they learned to plant and forge for themselves. We have progressed from those times and now know that the elves are not superior to us.  We have built a great civilization with our own scholars, and inventors, and builders. It is unfair that Eru gifted the elves with everlasting life and not us.”   He grimaced.  
  
Mairon nodded. “I have thoughts concerning Eru’s motives and they are not flattering. Your father must have been very wise.  I have heard that he was . . . unappreciated by a certain faction among your people.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn cocked his head.  “You are well-informed.  Yes, that’s so.  We still have a remnant of the old beliefs, people who do not see the situation as clearly as did my father or, apparently, as well as you.”  
  
Mairon inclined his head.  As he had thought, this was turning out to be even easier than bagging a quail in a pit.    
  
“So,” Ar-Pharazôn continued, “Annatar, if that is what you wish to be called, I want to know, and do not lie to me because I’ll know at once . . . can you truly . . . I mean, do you know the secret of eternal youth?  Can you make men deathless, like the elves?”  
  
Ah, that must have been eating at him.  The King was doing his utmost to appear casual, as if the answer did not mean the whole of Middle-earth to him.     
  
“The short answer is I can renew a semblance of youth, but I cannot make you immortal,” Mairon said.  He played with one of his ruby earrings. “There is, of course, a longer answer, full of arcane logic and words of foreign origin.”  
  
“Oh,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “Couldn’t you just tell me how?  The short version.”  
  
“And why should I?”  Mairon laughed.  “Do you think I’m such a dim player to show all my cards to you?  In any case, the knowledge alone would avail you nothing. I’m the only one who can apply it.”   From habit, he began to twist the Ring, only to find a void where it used to encircle his finger, tight and comforting. For a moment he felt a sense of loss.  
  
“Oh,” said the King again, sounding as disappointed as a boy being refused another helping of pie. He thought a moment. “I could force the knowledge from you.”  
  
“No, you can’t.”  Mairon said.  “Trust me on that one. In my time, I’ve been worked over by the Master.” He sent a brief image of himself, hands bolted to the wall while a lash was being cracked expertly across his bare buttocks.  
  
Nervously, Ar-Pharazôn passed a hand over his open mouth.  Mairon continued, “And even if I did tell you what I know, I’m the only one with sufficient power to work the magic.  Instructions taken by force would be meaningless.”  
  
“Ah, so you say,” Ar-Pharazôn said distantly.  He was rubbing his chin with the heel of his hand. “If I can believe anything you tell me.”  
  
“You can believe the surface of what I say.  It is up to you to decide about the undercurrent.”  
  
“You’re playing with me. I don’t like it and may decide to have you punished,” Ar-Pharazôn growled.  
  
“Mmm, how do you know I wouldn’t enjoy it?”  Mairon licked his lips.  
  
“You are a strange beast, surely,” Ar-Pharazôn replied.    
  
Mairon laughed delightedly. “So, Great King, tell me, now that you have the dragon by the tail, what do you intend to do with me?” He slipped a finger into his mouth and sucked quail grease from it with a soft kissing sound.  Withdrawing it slowly from his lips, he lifted his eyes to assure himself of the King’s undivided attention, then sent an image of a head, face obscured by a cascade of silky red hair, moving up and down over the King’s lap.  
  
The King inhaled sharply, and shifted his weight, bringing his knees together.    
  
“What do I intend?” the King asked.  Abruptly he stood. “I have not decided yet.”   He turned to his guards. “Chain him up again, but make sure his . . . needs are met.”  Then he hurried out.  
  
Warg’s breath! Mairon thought, in frustration.  He slammed his fist down on the table making the crockery jump.    
  
“Hey, no need for that,” Leering Boy chided. “You’re lucky the King gives you an audience at all. It could be the executioner’s block for you, mîki.”  
  
Mairon hissed at him and he stepped back a pace.  
  
“Come on, let’s chain ‘im up,” Dâur, the Weasel-face said.  
  
Both guards advanced upon him. When Weasel-face reached for Mairon’s wrists to reaffix the chain, Mairon had a moment of panic.  He sent the man an image of a bat flying right at his face and at the same time shot Leering Boy one of a huge rat underfoot.    
  
“Arrrrgggg,” Weasel-face screamed, wildly flinging his hands in the air while Leering Boy performed a little hoppity dance yelling,“Ossë’s arse!” They looked at each other in confusion and then at Mairon.    
  
Mairon bit his lip to hide the smile.  
*********  
  
Wearing this, he could pass for a prince, Sûla thought. He sat on a stool in the King’s tent, holding a silver mirror and turning his head this way and that, admiring the way his Majesty’s diadem of gold and emeralds glittered on his brow. He straightened the links on the gold necklace the King had given him, then examined the embroidery on his fine wool tunic dyed an expensive crimson. He had ordered the tunic made with a neck wide enough to allow one shoulder to peep out lasciviously. Now, he cupped it, feeling the slender contour in his palm, testing the softness of the skin. He lifted his chin, imperiously, and raised the hand in a commanding gesture. “Down on your knees, wretch!” he said and then giggled at his reflection.  
  
Slapping his smooth cheeks, one after the other, to bring a bloom to honey-golden skin, he then tilted his head, deploying his rosy, upturned lips into a coy smile.  Ah yes, the smile that had impressed a king.  
  
He knew he looked good, but looks were not his only asset. His stepfather, that perverted bastard who had sold him into slavery at age thirteen, the one who oft had told him that he’d never amount to anything more than a suckcock, would not have believed how high he had come in five years. Already, the King had given him presents rich enough that he could have paid off the tax debts of his whole village. Not bad for the son of an Umbarian blacksmith. He’d earned them too; keeping the King’s interest was hard work. Although, sometimes, as he serviced the King, his stepfather’s harsh cry of “whore!” echoed in his mind.  
  
Feh! A full belly was worth it. His fine clothes and soft bed and light workload were worth it; worth the starvation on the stormy voyage from Umbar to Númenor, the humiliation of the slave block, the beatings and the perversions of his first master. How lucky he had been that Lord Azûnê had chosen to bring him to court, and that, while pouring the wine at the banquet, Sûla had managed to catch the King’s eye! He had been decorative, efficient, and clever and, within a month, he’d been promoted to King’s Cupbearer. That was not a small thing amidst all his pretty rivals. Now he was sleeping next to the most powerful man in Arda! He could scarce believe it. Who knew what he could achieve next? And lately, he’d been able to slip in a word here and there that the King heeded. Such favors were making him friends in court, and some enemies. Too bad.  It would be worth it if he could earn an estate of his own. He simply had to endure his Majesty’s unsubtle lovemaking until the King tired of him. Well, that was the story of his life.  
  
Was that all? His dark, kohl-lined eyes looked back at him from the mirror, as if waiting for something, for some higher purpose.  Sûla clicked his tongue dismissing such a thought.  Then, he noticed a small red blotch on his chin. No, it couldn’t be. He leaned towards the mirror to examine it.  
  
There were voices outside the tent. Oh Zizzûn, Master of Fate! His Majesty was returning! He'd figured the King’d be gone all morning, drooling over that pretty sorcerer they had copped. Sûla snatched the diadem from his head and quickly set it on the velvet cushion on the grooming table. Then he ran over to the bed and flung himself down upon it. He had just enough time to arrange himself provocatively, fluffing his hair, and letting his tunic drop off his shoulder, when the King entered.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn strode the length of the tent and then turned, his fists clenched. He picked up the satchel that carried the Zigûr’s maps and heaved it against the side of the tent where it hit with a sharp thwop, then rebounded from the canvas to land on one of the many furs covering the floor.  
  
Sûla sat up. “My Lord, what has happened?”  
  
“Nothing. He’s maddening! Maddening!”  
  
“The Zigûr, my Lord?” Sûla slid off the bed, his long silk sash trailing behind him. “Do you wish some mulled wine? I will have them water it well so there’s no headache.” He came up behind the King, and began kneading his shoulders, gently.  
  
“Yes, yes, have it brought,” Ar-Pharazôn said, shrugging him off.  
  
“What did he say to anger you so?” Sûla asked.  
  
“‘Tis not so much what he said; it’s what he didn’t . . . . He affects me in ways he shouldn’t. I think I’m going mad; I don’t know who to trust.”  
  
“You may trust me, my Lord King.”  
  
The King’s expression softened and he took Sûla’s face in his large hand, studying it. “Is that so, my little trifle? I wonder how long your loyalty would outlast my gold.”  
  
Sûla let him hold his chin a moment longer, and then said, “Permit me, my Lord, to do as you bid.”  
  
Abruptly, the King dropped his hand. He took off his short leopardskin cape, tossed it on a divan, and resumed pacing while Sûla went to the door and whispered to the guard, ordering the wine, telling him to hurry or risk the King’s displeasure. He returned and knelt down at the King’s feet, touching his head to the ground and then sitting up. “Do you wish some ease, my Lord?”  
  
“Some ease?” The King stopped. He reached down and took hold of Sûla’s hair in a strong grip. “Yes. I want that.” He hauled him upwards, then his mouth was on Sûla’s – hard and hungry, teeth scraping against Sûla’s lips. The youth resisted at first due to sheer surprise. When he saw how it was, he relaxed, visualizing his body bending like a young tree. Ar-Pharazôn put an arm about his waist, hugging him close. Sûla could feel that he was hard against his leg.  
  
“Oh, my Lord is anxious for it,” Sûla said slyly.  
  
The King dragged his other hand down Sûla’s cheek along his neck to that bare shoulder. His fingers dug into it. “Off,” said hoarsely. “Take them off.”  
  
“As it pleases you, my Liege,” Sûla responded. Time for a show. He stepped back, untied the sash and pulled it off, then he took the hem of the tunic, along with the woolen undergarment, and in an undulating motion pulled them slowly over head. He threw it over the divan, shivering a little in the cool air. He was wearing loose silk trousers with the crotch and seat cut away revealing pertinent portions of his anatomy. The sight of this garment always had a positive effect on the King.  
  
Sûla flashed his entrancing smile, arched his back, and ran his hands provocatively over his chest, squeezing his nipples; then he turned, presenting what he knew from having been told many, many times, was an extremely pleasing rear view. He looked over his shoulder at the King.  
  
The King stepped forward; his hand slapped up against Sûla’s arse and grasped one cheek hard enough to hurt. “You are a work of art, Sûla,” he breathed into his ear.  Brushing the youth’s hair aside, he bit down on his neck.  
  
A servant arrived with the cup of wine. It was the cute, curly-haired page, Tigôn. He stopped at the doorflap and quickly averted his eyes from the scene.  
  
“A moment, your Majesty,” Sûla said as he pulled away from the embrace. He walked over, stood in front of the young man, and pointedly looked down at himself dressed only in his altered leggings and jewelry. As he bent to take the cup, he whispered in Tigôn’s ear. “Too bad none of it’s for you, mîki.”  
  
The page’s lips curled derisively and he hastened out backwards, getting tangled for a moment in the canvas flap. Sûla laughed, and carried the cup to his King. “To your health, my Lord.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn took several quick gulps, wiped his mouth with his hand, sighed, and set the cup down. He grabbed Sûla by the shoulders, pulling him into another greedy, wine-tainted kiss. His breath had the harsh edge of someone who drinks too much. Sûla knew that taste all too well.  
  
The kiss became more frenzied, devouring, and then the King pushed him backward onto the bed, and fell heavily on top of him. He began biting Sûla’s neck.  Sûla cried out, knowing that the King liked him to be noisy. No doubt when he left the tent, the guards would give him that look – that combination of disgust and hunger. He cared not. This was what he wanted, the King’s approval. Continuing downwards, the King nipped along his chest. Taking a tender nipple into his mouth, he rolled it around his tongue, sucking hard, and then biting down. Zizzûn, that hurt!  
  
“Ow!” Sûla cried, “You are hungry this morning, my Lord. I think you will eat me for breakfast.”  
  
“You little tart,” the King replied. “I’m going to sod you so thoroughly, you’ll be choking on my balls!”  
  
What an appetizing image, my Lord, Sûla thought. But then the King’s hand slid down Sûla’s belly and grasped his cock, stroking with an insistent, upward pull. The friction was arousing but uncomfortably dry. A blunt finger snaked behind his balls and penetrated him to the first knuckle.  He felt a cold ring poking at his entrance. Ouch! Oh gods, was the King not going to use any oil again?  
  
Sûla worked his hand between them, outlining the leather-clad lump at the King’s groin with his fingers. “My Lord, may I prepare you?” he said in his most sultry voice. “Remember how divine that oil from Pelargir felt?”  
  
“Hurry, I am in need,” Ar-Pharazôn growled, but he did move off him a little. Quickly, Sûla slithered out from under him, pulled off the King’s boots, and managed to remove his jerkin, unfasten his pants, and haul out his goods before the King had grasped his hair, pushing him down. “I can’t wait. Use your mouth,” the King growled.  
  
No oil then. Sûla complied, conjuring up as much spit as he could and letting it drool down. He was working the entire length, long strokes, as his Majesty usually liked, but Ar-Pharazôn grasped his hair and began pushing and pulling, forcing him into a much quicker rhythm. By the Gates of Wrath, what had gotten into him? The King usually wasn’t this hot. The broad head pummeled the back of Sûla’s throat, until the King’s earlier threat nearly became true and he had to tense his stomach muscles to keep from gagging.  He pulled away, burying his face in the King’s soft tunic to catch a breath.  
  
“That’s enough, then,” the King said. “Turn over.”  
  
As Sûla turned, he spat on his hand, and reaching back, smeared it between his cheeks. He crouched, rear tilted up, head down. The King held him by the hip with one hand; the knuckles of his other hand with their rings brushed against his arse. Moments later, he felt the hard push of the King’s poleaxe, opening him up with a raw stretch. “Aiiiiiiii, yes! Valar have mercy, my King!” he yelled. Technically, his stepfather had been larger, unpleasantly so, but Sûla knew that a little flattery in that area never went amiss.  
  
“You little minxcat, you feel so, unnhhh, so good,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted.  
  
“My Lord, please, please fuck me. I ache for it,” Sûla gasped.  A little pleading never hurt either.  
  
A slow withdrawal nearly all the way out. Large hands gripped his hips. Uh, here it comes, Sûla thought. Reaching up, he laced his fingers through the coiled filigree of the iron bedstead. Then he was being pounded within an inch of his life, to the tune of the bedstead's raucous objections.  
  
“Oh, my L-L-Lord . . .”  Sûla said, his teeth practically rattling in his head as he held on.  
  
“Beautiful, gorgeous little ass,” Ar-Pharazôn gasped.    
  
As usual, it was taking the King a while to get off.  He would pull nearly out and make little jerky motions and then suddenly plunge deep again. His loins grew slippery with sweat against Sûla’s arse, which made the action a little easier.  Eventually, he leaned his weight against Sûla’s back, pushing him down into the bed. “Press your legs together . . .  more,” he said, his voice gruff in Sûla’s ear.  He put his hands down on either side. “Stroke yourself,” he commanded.  “I like to feel you spend, like to feel you quake around me.”  
  
Sûla licked his hand, reached down, found himself not nearly hard enough and set about vigorously changing that.  He thought of the King’s other pretty ziramîkin, thought of a banquet not so long ago, the couches filled with writhing bodies and glorious debauchery, thought of curly-haired Tigôn with his shy smile and how he’d like to suck him off.  And then he thought of the Zigûr coming into the tent with that pervasive sense of power, the surprise of that glorious  red hair cascading down, imagined those lush lips kissing down his chest, tongue snaking out to tease the head of his cock, and suddenly with a loud, “Gahhhhh,” Sûla exploded.  
  
“Yes, that’s it. Mmm, by the gods, that’s it,” Ar-Pharazôn crowed.  And then he piked Sûla, groaning in pleasure as he thrust.  He paused, shuddered, roared, shuddered some more, stopped, and then fucked him some more until he had fully expended himself.    
  
The creaking abruptly ceased and their breath sounded loud, huffing in Sûla’s ears. He turned his head and sighed in relief. The King swatted him hard on the backside and fell next to him, softly laughing with pleasure.    
  
***********  
More than an hour later, they lay together completely naked, face to face under a fox fur blanket. Sûla's arse and thighs were slippery with the King's seed. He longed to get up and clean himself, but the King was enjoying him still, playing with Sûla’s hair as he kissed his face, his neck, anywhere that took his fancy. This part of their coupling was what Sûla lived for.  
  
“You are magnificent,” Ar-Pharazôn murmured.  
  
“As it pleases you, my Lord,” Sûla said. “Do you feel better now?” He gave the King a bright smile, hoping that twice would have satisfied him; not only did his rear end ache, but during the first hasty bout, some inconvenient buckle on the King’s clothing had scratched up the small of his back and it stung.  
  
“I feel more relaxed,” the King said. He went for Sûla’s mouth again. “You are so pretty, I want to chew you up.”  
  
“Very flattering, my Lord, but then I would no longer be pretty,” Sûla suggested, to which the King laughed.  
  
“I wonder,” Ar-Pharazôn said, curling a black ringlet around his finger, “how you would look with red hair?”  
  
Sûla glanced sharply at him. “I’ve never thought of it before, perhaps it would be attractive. May I ask, what made you so hot this morn?”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn sighed and rolled onto his back. “Frustration,” he said.  
  
Sûla leaned up on an elbow, tracing a finger around one of the King’s fuzzy pectorals. “It’s the Zigûr you captured, isn’t it?”  
  
“I never thought he would actually surrender. And then I never expected him to be . . .”  
  
“Beautiful?”  
  
“Yes that. And so reasonable and charming. The reports described him as a blood-thirsty shape-changer. I imagined him looking like some kind of ghoul, not . . . hmmm, like he does. And the things he says make so much sense. But Aphanuzîr is correct; his surrender without a fight is deeply suspicious. I’d be a fool to trust him. So, I don’t know what to do. I’m not going to divide up Middle-earth with him. He has no right to any of it and I’m certainly not going to pretend that he does. If I let him go back to his fortress, he would resume his conquests – of course he would. So would I in his place. And if I execute him . . . well there are reasons I’d rather not do that. He said I had a dragon by the tail and that fits the situation to a nicety. How do I let go without getting burned?”  
  
“Ah, who says you need to let him go, my Lord?”  
  
“What?” The King half-turned and looked at him intently with those bright blue eyes. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”  
  
“There is a saying in my village: if you have an eel by the tail, hold him at arm’s length and watch closely his teeth. What if you take this zigûr back with you to Anadûnê? Keep him in prison there. That way you can watch him and make sure he does not bite.”  
  
“No doubt he could still do harm in ways I’ve yet to imagine,” Ar-Pharazôn sighed. “But yes, I’ve wondered if that wasn’t the best course of action. He has very useful knowledge that, in time, he might be persuaded to share.”  
  
“Useful knowledge of many things,” Sûla replied. “He said he knew the secret of eternal youth. What is he, my King?  Where do the zigûrin come from?”  
  
“He’s what they call a Maia, a servant of the Lords of the West and they come from Aman.  It’s said he used to serve Morgoth, the fallen Vala.  I don’t know the extent of his power. Tales of him go back thousands of years; he is one of the deathless.”  
  
“I sometimes wonder if that would be a good thing, my Lord?  Would you not become sick of doing the same things over and over for all time?”  
  
“Spoken like someone who has yet to feel the grip of age.” Ar-Pharazôn stroked Sûla’s cheek. “You are shiny with youth. There is not a line or an age spot on your face, oh, except for a youthful lesion here.” He touched Sûla’s chin.    
  
Sûla felt heat rise to his cheeks and he leaned on his hand so that it covered his chin.  “I am sure you are right, my King.  In any case, he who holds the secret of immortality would have immense power.  I would think that alone is worth the risk of taking him to Anadûnê?”  
  
The King sighed. “I think so too. He may come to the conclusion that it’s better to give up that knowledge than be locked in my dungeon.  But I don’t know how powerful he is and it worries me.  He can make us see things, like his display in the tent earlier.  You saw it too, didn’t you?”  Sûla nodded.  The King frowned. “I wonder . . . But he didn’t show any greater power than that; he didn’t cause a whirlwind to destroy my camp or bring some mountain down on my army or some such. He seems constrained by the chains and I can tell he hates them.  I would think if he could get free of them, he would. So perhaps his power is less than fear makes it. The whole thing is very vexing.”    
  
“I’d be willing to watch him for you,” Sûla said eagerly. “I’d let you know everything he says and does. To cover it, you could assign me to him as a server.”  
  
“Ah, my own little spy,” Ar-Pharazôn chuckled. “And you are not afraid of him?”  
                                          
“I’d do it for you, my Lord.”  
  
“And how could you watch him if you are face down in my bed? For I’d much rather you served me here than anywhere else.”  
  
“That would be somewhat difficult.” Sûla giggled. “However, you are much too busy to keep to your bed, even if the activities there are pleasant.”  Gently, he nudged his hip against the King.  
  
The King’s eyes were unfocused, floating away on some thought. “Maybe I should make him a guest at my banquets.”  
  
Sûla smirked. “As guest or performer? Don’t you think he’d look lovely in the silks and chains?”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn chuckled, as he grasped Sûla’s chin. “You, my dear Sûla, are wicked,” he said. He bent for another kiss and Sûla returned it with tongue. “You delicious tart,” the King said, “I may have to take you again.”  
  
Sûla managed to turn his groan into a sigh of longing.  
  
***********  
  
It was the afternoon when Ar-Pharazôn finally returned to the tent where he was keeping Mairon prisoner. When the King entered, Mairon made himself appear calm, even though he was seething inside.  
  
“Unchain his legs. Leave the ones on his wrists,” the King said to his guards.  
  
“What are you doing?” Mairon asked as Weasel-face unlocked his leg irons.  
  
“Bring him,” was the King’s brusque response.  
  
The guard jerked him to the door and pulled aside the flap. Mairon blinked in the sudden light, although the sky was a uniform grey.  He detected a faint, sharp odor of sweat and sex coming from the King. Ah, it appeared his machinations this morning had had some effect on his Majesty after all.  
  
“What do you see?” Ar-Pharazôn asked.  
  
All about them tents were being pulled down amidst the sharp clatter of stakes and shouted orders. Men were everywhere: carrying trunks, loading up wains, hitching up horses.  
  
“You’re pulling out, going home,” Mairon concluded. “Well, it was a merry meeting. Before you leave, I wish to put our agreement in writing.”  
  
“No need for that,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “My duty as King is to do what is best for my people, and, as my counselors have so wisely pointed out, you are not to be trusted. Did you think me so foolish that I’d believe all you have told me?  I’ve decided it’s best to keep an eye on you. So, you’re coming to Anadûnê – as my prisoner.”  
  
Perfectly played. It was all Mairon could do not to laugh. And now to continue the charade . . . “No!” he cried indignantly. “You can’t do that! This is a betrayal. I refuse to go!” He made an attempt to run for the door but Leering Boy hauled back on the chain. With a cry, Mairon was pulled off his feet. He scrambled about, attempting to rise; the guard smacked him across the face.  
  
“You have no choice, Annatar,” the King replied. “Be a good boy, or I’ll have you whipped. You do feel pain, don’t you?”  
  
The guard snickered and Mairon scowled at him, then put his hand to his throbbing cheek. He was recording every slight in the ledger kept in his head. Everything.  
  
**********************  
Azûnê - invented Adûnaic name.  Thanks Mal.  
Dâur - name from canon Adûnaic meaning “gloom.”  Weasel-faced guard.  
Hozdûnik - invented Adûnaic name for the leering guard.  
mîk - means baby boy in Adûnaic. In this fic, I’ve made it into a slang word, mîki, which has a slightly jeering meaning, like saying “dude” or “pal” or “boyo.”  
Zizzûn – or Zizz, Master of Fate - a god of the peasants around Umbar and an elfscribe invention.  
-tbc-  
  



	6. A Wolf in the Wain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sûla finds Sauron intriguing.
> 
> Reminder:Aphanuzîr is Amandil’s name in Adûnaic; Nimruzîr is Elendil’s name  
> 

  


Snowflakes drifted down in desultory silence; one lit on Sûla’s wool cloak and glittered for a moment before it was gone. All about him the great army was on the move, churning up the road into mud. Wains creaked, whips snapped, and drivers shouted. Sûla saw the wain that carried the Zigûr swaying up ahead. For a time he agonized over whether or not to approach. He remembered elders of his village, their faces starkly lit by firelight, telling horrific tales about him. He still shivered at the memory. But the figure of willowy, epicene beauty that had been revealed in the tent did not match what he had heard. Sûla had to know more. He nudged his horse into a trot to catch up, even though the jerky motion was not pleasant given his tender condition. He was glad that, at least, he had changed into sturdy leather breeches.  
  
Four bored guards escorted the wain, which was partly filled with the bright gold color of the King’s folded canvas tent. At the back of the wain the Zigûr sat in a nest of grey blankets with his back to a large trunk. His head, covered by the dark hood of his cloak, was bowed to his chest. Was he sleeping? Did he sleep? There seemed no threat there, but Sûla knew better. He could feel the Zigûr’s presence thrumming about his head like a wasp. What had he called himself amongst all those names he’d trotted out this morning? Annatar?  
  
Sûla hesitated and licked his lips. “My Lord Annatar,” he called.  
                                                  
The head lifted and he found himself pierced by a glance from those strange, golden eyes. “Ah, a visitor.” There was a pause. “Well, what do you want?”  
  
“Ar-Pharazôn, I mean, his Majesty assigned me to serve your needs,” Sûla said.  
  
“Did he now?” Annatar studied Sûla. “Would you keep me warm then?” Sûla hesitated and Annatar gave him that sly smile. “I remember you from the audience this morning. You are the pleasure-boy.”  
  
“I’m the King’s cupbearer,” Sûla corrected.  
  
“I’m sure you are,” said Annatar, “and that’s why you sit your horse so gingerly.” A soft laugh.  
  
Angrily Sûla said, “I came to see if you wanted anything. If you were thirsty or hungry.” He lifted his water gourd from the shoulder strap. “As is my duty. But I see I was in error.” He turned his horse’s head.  
  
“Pray forgive me,” Annatar said, his voice becoming honeyed. “Now that you mention it, I am thirsty, and also in need of pleasurable company. These mailshirts,” he jerked his head at the guards, “are unbearably dull. No conversation.”  
  
Sûla hesitated.  
  
“No need to fear me,” Annatar said. “They have me well secured. Don’t you, lads?” This was addressed to the guards. He raised his hands with a sharp clink.  
  
“Hey, no one said you could talk,” a guard named Dâur declared. He looked at Sûla. “Shove off, mîki.”  
  
“I’m here by order of the King,” Sûla replied.  
  
“He didn’t tell us about it,” Dâur growled.  
  
“Do you not know who I am?” Sûla asked.  
  
The guards chuckled. “Aye,” said a craggy faced guard with a leer, a man named Hozdûnik. “Will you serve our needs too?” He cupped his crotch, gave it a little shake.  
  
“I may have to report that to the King,” Sûla said smoothly.  
  
Hozdûnik’s smile melted away. “No offense meant,” he mumbled.  
  
There! They dare not trifle with me, Sûla thought with a glow of satisfaction.  
  
“What harm can the boy do,” Annatar said to them, “if you are here watching?”  
  
Something happened. Sûla wasn’t sure what, but the guards blinked.  
  
“Very well,” said Hozdûnik and waved him forward.  
  
Sûla came alongside the wain and extended his canteen towards Annatar, but he was just out of reach.  
  
“Tie your horse to the back and come aboard. No doubt, it will be more comfortable than riding,” Annatar said.  
  
“This is difficult while we’re moving.” Sûla glanced at the driver of the wain who showed no inclination to stop.  
  
“Take a risk, mîki,” Annatar snapped.  
  
After some false tries, Sûla managed to tie his horse to a hook on the back of the wain, and toss in the canteen. He grasped the top of his saddle cloth, stood upright, and, for a frightening moment, balanced there before half leaping, half falling into the wain as his horse startled under him. He landed hard in the blankets and gathered himself upright.  
  
“Well done,” Annatar said.  
  
Pleased, Sûla settled against the canvas opposite Annatar who was now regarding him with amusement. Sûla handed him the canteen.  
  
Annatar took it and drank thirstily. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tell the King I thank him for sending me such a lovely retainer.” He smiled widely. Sûla felt it as a sudden heat. He could not reconcile this charming being with all that he had heard about him. He had to know. He opened his mouth, then faltered.  
  
“Ask your question,” Annatar said. “That is why you’re here, is it not?”  
  
“I am merely doing as I was bid,” Sûla said.  
  
“If that were so, you’d have lobbed your canteen at me and been on your way.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Sûla shrugged.  
  
“Tell me your name, man of Umbar,” Annatar said.  
  
“It’s Sûla. How did you know where I’m from?”  
  
“Your accent, the drawn out r’s and the musical cadence, up and then down. Not to mention the Umbarian coloring, that dark, wavy hair and golden skin. I’ve spent much time there myself . . . in years past.”  
  
“You study people well, don’t you?” Sûla said, to which Annatar merely widened those half-lidded, feline eyes. “You are correct, that is where I’m from,” Sûla conceded. “Actually from Brûni, a village further down the coast. There were tales of you in my village. Of your deeds. And so,” he plunged into it, “I would like to know, please, can you really turn into a wolf?”  
  
Annatar laughed. “Tales told among the kindred of men are often exaggerations or outright lies.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“You sound disappointed, Sûla. Why did you want to know?”  
  
“I just . . . I always liked those stories. When I was young, I wanted to be able to do that, to turn into a wolf. A great big black one with knives for teeth.”  
  
“And why should you wish to do that?”  
  
Sûla frowned. He did not like to speak about his past, but the fantasy he’d had when young rose unbidden, of himself in wolf’s form shaking Khunig, his stepfather, to bloody rags.  
  
“I wanted to be stronger than I was, so I could defend myself,” he replied.  
  
Annatar quirked an eyebrow and settled back against the trunk. “Was someone hurting you?”  
  
Sûla tossed his head. “It does not matter. Not now.”  
  
“These things always matter,” Annatar replied. “What happens when we are young shapes who we are later. Having power over others is a way to feel safe.”  
  
Sûla pondered the truth of that.  
  
Annatar looked at him as if sizing him up. He said, “I will confess to you, my friend, that the tales are true. I could change my shape into that of a wolf – a hideous brute with strength enough to rip a man in half quite as easily as tearing up reed paper.”  
  
Sûla leaned forward, entranced. “Marvelous! Could you change my shape?”  
  
Annatar chuckled softly. “Thirsty for power are you, my friend? Don’t make the mistake of thinking it enjoyable to manifest the beast within. It took days to fully resume my normal form. I would be wrapped in a choking gloom and only able to eat raw meat, which under normal circumstances I abhor.” He clacked his teeth together. “However, sadly, that skill is now lost. My powers changed when I took this form and I can no longer become a wolf or any other beast.”  
  
“Truly?” Sûla replied. “Are all your powers diminished? Is that why you suffer this captivity? Because your sorcery cannot free you?”  
  
Sûla thought he caught a gleam in Annatar’s eyes, but he merely nodded. Sûla wriggled about, trying to sit more comfortably. The chains chinked. Annatar lifted his face to the sky. A snowflake landed on his cheek and disappeared. Sûla could almost hear it hiss and had to resist putting his hand on the sorcerer’s smooth face to feel if the skin was hot. He glimpsed another delicate flake floating down, opened his mouth and caught it tingling cold on his tongue, a feat that seemed to amuse Annatar greatly. He joined Sûla, extending a pink and mobile tongue. For a time, they chased snowflakes with their mouths, like children. Sûla laughed in delight.  
  
Annatar eyed him sidelong. “Not enough to quench a real thirst, are they?”  
  
Sûla shook his head and offered the water gourd.  
  
“I’d rather have some hot wine,” Annatar said.  
  
“I’m afraid I haven’t any until we stop for the night. I’ll bring some then.”  
  
“Good boy,” Annatar said. “So you are the King’s . . . cupbearer. An enviable position, perhaps?”  
  
“It is,” Sûla said with pride. “He listens to me.”  
  
“Does he? And what do you say to him?”  
  
Sûla stopped himself before blurting out that the reason Annatar was on this journey was due to his counsel. He wasn’t sure how the Zigûr would take such a revelation, but it was likely Annatar might hold it against him. He said, “Little things, here and there.”  
  
“And would you tell him everything I say, even if it was told you in confidence?”  
  
“I can keep secrets,” Sûla huffed.  
  
“Can you? I’ll trust you with one, then.”  
  
Sûla looked up, startled, into Annatar’s eyes and saw what appeared to be a fire crackling in their depths. It drew him in. Secrets? Always useful. He could decide whether or not to tell the King – later. He nodded.  
  
“Come closer,” Annatar said in a lowered voice. Sûla shuffled forward on his knees. The wain hit a bump knocking him into the sorcerer’s arms. He let out a little squeak but Annatar took hold of his shoulders to steady him and then breathed in deeply. Sûla felt the softness of his exhalation upon his neck. “Enticing perfume,” Annatar said. “I could smell you on the King earlier. You are charming, Sûla. I can see why you are a favorite.”  
  
Sûla’s face bloomed hot; there was a slow coiling of interest in his loins. This would not do at all. The King did not tolerate competition on the sly; Sûla could dally with others only when performing for him. Abruptly, he pulled away. “What is this confidence you said you’d share?” he said, more roughly than he meant.  
  
“Your King is interested in prolonging youth. I know how to brew an elixir that will do that. The key ingredient is men’s seed, taken fresh.”  
  
“By Zizzûn,” Sûla said in soft awe.  
  
“Disgusting stuff to choke down, but then perhaps he wouldn’t mind so much.” Annatar’s lips quirked upward. “The process of obtaining it is quite pleasurable to the donor. Useful knowledge, don’t you think?”  
  
Sûla thought that the King might receive this news rather well. There were certainly worse things he could imagine having to do. He nodded. “Why do you tell me this?”  
  
“It’s a test to see if you’re trustworthy.”  
  
“Why should I care what you think of me?”  
  
“Because you do,” Annatar said. “Because you want to learn how to become a wolf.”  
  
“Ah. So, what is the test?”  
  
“Do not tell the King what I just said. Leave the timing of it to me.”  
  
“Very well,” Sûla said, “as long as you tell him soon. It would not go well for me if he finds that I’ve withheld information.”  
  
There was that gleam of the eyes again. “No, I expect not. So, tell me then, Sûla, who does the King listen to at court? Aside from you, of course.”  
  
“Who does he listen to? Most often Lord Azgarad, I expect.”  
  
“I met the Lord Azgarad this morning. A most imposing figure. What can you tell me about him?”  
  
“He’s very disciplined. Up early every morning. Knows everything that’s going on. He’s in charge of the finances and the military. You don’t cross him.”  
  
“Is he well liked at court?”  
  
“Yes, well enough. He has no use for me or the other zirâmîkin.”  
  
“Really? He disapproves of the King’s . . . um . . . entertainment? Does he have any vices himself?”  
  
Sûla looked sharply at Annatar, realizing perhaps a little late that these questions were not asked merely to pass the time. “Why do you want to know?”  
  
“You should be able to figure it out, my young cupbearer. I’m being taken prisoner to a foreign land and I have no idea what they plan for me. It is terrifying. I need to know what to expect of my captors.”  
  
Sûla nodded. In the Zigûr’s place, he would do no less, however, he suddenly realized that he had been lulled into allowing his tongue to wag too freely and that this could be a dangerous game. Perhaps it was time to go. Just then he heard a voice shouting and sat up to look.  
  
“Hoy, you! What are you doing there?” It was Lord Aphanuzîr riding up through the wains. The snow was coming more steadily now and his beard was white with it. Behind him rode his son, Nimruzîr, wearing a green hood, pulled low. Lord Aphanuzîr came level with the wain, his rangy grey horse moving at a brisk, rolling walk, and angrily addressed the guards. “What is this boy doing with the prisoner?”  
  
“He said the King told him to take care of the prisoner’s needs. He wanted some water,” Dâur replied.  
  
“That should not involve riding in the wain with him! You, boy, get out at once!”  
  
“I can’t while we’re moving,” Sûla replied, peeved at the tone the Councilor was taking with him.  
  
“Halt! Halt!” Lord Aphanuzîr roared at the driver. He rode up alongside him, waving his hands. Slowly, the wain lurched to a stop and the wain behind them went around, narrowly missing them. Its driver waved his fist at them. “Jump on your horse before we have a pile up,” Aphanuzîr snapped.  
  
Sûla stood, untied his horse, and then climbed over the side of the wain onto the animals’ back.  
  
“Your company was most pleasant, Sûla,” Annatar said. “Thank you for the water.” For a moment he held Sûla’s gaze with those cat-like eyes.  
  
“It was my duty, that’s all,” Sûla said, taking up his reins.  
  
The wain driver snapped his whip; the horses leaned into the harness, and the wain shuddered into motion. Sûla watched Lord Annatar slowly recede. He and Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr became like an island with the current of the army eddying about them.  
  
“What in Ossë’s name were you doing?” Aphanuzîr growled.  
  
“Nothing, my Lord. Just keeping him company,” Sûla replied. “I didn’t see any harm in it.”  
  
“Stupid boy!” Aphanuzîr said. “That creature you were so cozy with is entirely evil and of immense guile. Stay away if you know what is good for you.”  
  
“The King assigned me the task of seeing to his needs,” Sûla said stubbornly.  
  
“Then, do it without speaking to him!” Aphanuzîr barked. “Elendil, you should stay to help guard that wain and make sure Sauron has no more visitors. Drat, our company is way up ahead. I’ll see you in camp.” He sent his horse into a canter.  
  
“Hunh,” Sûla said as he watched him go.  
  
“My father may be gruff, but he has your best interests at heart,” Nimruzîr said quietly.  
  
“Does he?” Sûla replied. “I’m sure he wishes I didn’t even exist. None of the Councilors do.”  
  
Nimruzîr gave him a troubled look. “His advice is sound,” he replied. “Is there someplace I can escort you?”  
  
Sûla shook his head. “I have no place to go other than the King’s tent once they've set up, which I hope is soon. It’s getting cold.” He blew on his chilled hands.  
  
Nimruzîr squinted up at the sun, visible only as a pale, wavering globe amidst grey skies. “We have three hours of daylight left. I expect they’ll push on at least another two. You can stick with me until then. We’ll ride behind the Zigûr’s wain. Just don’t talk to him.”  
  
“My Lord, I assure you, if he wishes to talk with you, that’s what you’ll do, before you’re even aware of it,” Sûla replied. An image arose in his mind of a huge, black wolf  pacing the King’s halls with himself at its side, his hands buried in soft fur.  
 

****************  
The Zigûr is Adûnaic for sorcerer and is what the Númenóreans called Sauron.  
Khunig - name for Sûla’s stepfather, an elfscribe invention with help from Mal.  
mîki - mîk means baby boy in Adûnaic. In this fic, I’ve made it into a slang word, mîki, which has a slightly jeering meaning, like saying “dude” or “pal.” It should be pronounced "meekie."  
zirâmîkin - beloved boys. An elfscribe-invented word for Númenórean male courtesans, and in particular for Ar-Pharazôn’s boys. Zirân - beloved or desired and mîkin come from canon Adûnaic, but I’ve combined them into a new word. This is a polite word like “courtesan.”  
-tbc-


	7. Sûla’s Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events cause Sûla to slip deeper into Sauron’s net.
> 
> Warning: Violence, attempted rape
> 
> Note: Dulginzin and Mirandor are sons of Izindor, a lord of Arandor, who first appeared briefly in Ch. 4.

 

The taste was bitter in Sûla’s mouth but instead of quickly swallowing, as was his wont, he held it for a moment, then took some of the gooey substance from his tongue and rolled it between thumb and forefinger. A man’s seed, taken fresh. Could this be the key to an elixir of immortality? It was an astonishing thought. He swallowed the rest, wincing at the strong taste.  
  
The King sighed in satisfaction as he relaxed back against the pillows. The broad arms reached down, grasped Sûla’s shoulders, and pulled him upwards to lie against the royal chest. Surreptitiously, Sûla wiped his hand against his own thigh. For a time they lay quietly, warm under the heavy furs. It was quite dark in the tent. Sûla heard the flapping of the canvas in the wind, a nicker of a horse, and the royal heartbeat thumping against his ear. If only things could remain just like this, with no more demands upon him. If only the King would let him sleep and not ask any questions.  
  
Then the King shifted; Sûla could feel him bending towards him.  
  
“They tell me you spent some time with the Lord Annatar today.”  
  
“As you commanded,” Sûla replied, lifting his head.  
  
“Did he have anything of interest to say?” The voice was eager.  
  
“He asked about Lord Azgarad, wanted to know if he had any vices.”  
  
“Hmmmm. I wonder what he has in mind. Is he planning something? Searching for weaknesses?”  
  
“Perhaps. He said he needed the information because he was worried about what you might do to him. He seemed fearful of you, my Lord.”  
  
“Did he now?” The King chuckled.  
  
“Yes and he told me that in former days he could turn into a wolf. Said he could no longer do it since he took the new form.”  
  
“That’s useful information. If that’s true, it seems that his power is diminished and that he is not the threat my counselors fear. I’m beginning to think my idea for you to attend him was a good one. Is that all?”  
  
Sûla hesitated. “M’Lord . . .”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I do not mean to complain but my conversation was interrupted, just as he, well just as he was beginning to open up, reveal things. It was the Lord Aphanuzîr; he made me get out of the wain. He said it was too dangerous for me to talk to the Zigûr.”  
  
“Did he indeed? Who is he to make such a decision?” the King snapped. “I’ll order Aphanuzîr to leave you alone, so that you can continue watching Annatar uninterrupted. I’m trusting you, Sûla, to tell me everything of importance.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“Sleep now. We have another long march tomorrow.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
  
The silence deepened and the secret began to chafe at Sûla. Why had he hesitated to reveal it? Perhaps he should tell the King now. He could say, ‘oh yes, I forgot, the Zigûr told me about the key ingredient needed for the elixir of eternal youth.’ But the more he thought about that, the more suspicious it sounded. How could he have forgotten something of such magnitude? He should have spoken up right away. After all, what harm could it do to tell? Annatar had no power over him and the King held his very life in his hands. The Zigûr need not even know. Sûla could tell the King the whole story–that Annatar had told him to keep the secret –and instruct the King to act surprised when Annatar revealed it. Surely, Sûla thought, that would make clear where his loyalty lay, and perhaps the King would reward him. For a moment he entertained thoughts of a land grant, a place where he could be his own master. But even as he thought of that scheme, his heart sank. Somehow, he had a feeling that Annatar would know if he told the secret. Oh, what a fool he’d been to give his word to him! But he had been insulted that Annatar would think he wasn’t trustworthy; he had his pride after all, despite what others thought of his calling. And this was not a secret that put anyone in danger. Surely, it would not be so terrible to keep it hidden for a little longer.  
  
And so, he remained still, debating with himself until he heard the King’s breathing roughen into a soft snore. Ah well, too late to tell him tonight. Tomorrow would suffice. Sûla closed his eyes with the taste of the King bitter on his tongue, while outside the wind rattled the canvas and howled like a beast.  
  
**********************  
  
“Well, what did he want?” Elendil asked as his father emerged from the King’s tent, with a look on his face that would have caused one of his sailors to piss himself on the spot.  
  
“Not here,” Amandil said gruffly. They squelched through the ice-rimed mud back to their encampment where their household servants were folding up the tent and stowing their belongings in the wain in preparation for another day’s march.  
  
Elendil could feel his father’s anger building like a wave. “Ada,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”  
  
Amandil picked up a leather chest and heaved it into the wain. “He told me to leave his little zirâmîki be. Said he was spying on Lord Annatar for him and was gathering valuable information. Nothing I said moved him and he was quite clear that I should keep out of the affair.”  
  
“Sûla is just a boy, Ada. What harm can he do?” Elendil said.  
  
“Plenty. He sleeps with the King and therefore has his ear better than any of us, or have you forgotten that sordid little fact.”  
  
Elendil ground his teeth. “No, of course not, Ada.”  
  
“I have a terrible feeling about this. It’s certain that no good will come of dragging a Dark Lord of Evil home with us, especially amidst all the discord we already have there. Annatar could easily manipulate that if he wants to. Anyone with any sense could see past that pretty facade Annatar’s adopted. But then Calion always did let his baser desires rule him, even as a lad.”  
  
“Did you tell him your concerns?” Elendil asked.  
  
“Of course. He agreed with me! He’s not a fool, not yet at any rate. He told me that if I had a better alternative, I should offer it and quickly. He was very angry and I must admit I’m short on answers. Oh, Sauron has manipulated this one to a keen edge. We can’t let him go back to his dark fortress to plan more war. And it’s true what the King said; this campaign has gone better than I could have imagined with nary a drop of blood spilled. I suppose I should thank the Maia for surrendering as he did. But I am deeply suspicious of his motives.”  
  
“So am I,” Elendil replied. He put his hand on his father’s arm. “But just think, what if Ar-Pharazôn is right? It seems reasonable to take Annatar as prisoner to Númenor in order to keep an eye on him. Better the shark ye can see than the one ye cannot.”  
  
Amandil sighed. “I think we should have at least tried chopping his head off . . . , Annatar’s head that is, not the King’s,” he added with a slight smile.  
  
Elendil snorted. “You have a potentially treasonous sense of humor. But think. You are a Counselor still and in a position to watch closely what happens. I pray you not to do anything rash that would jeopardize that position.”  
  
“The voice of reason and it has to come from my son, and not from me,” Amandil sighed. “But my ability to watch is limited. Even if I had the stomach for it, I cannot slip into the King’s bedchamber and listen to pillowtalk.” He winced. “Nor do I have a reason for lurking around the Zigûr’s tent. Indeed, the King just ordered us to stay away from Sûla and the Lord Annatar. Is there someone we can find to watch for us? A guard perhaps?”  
  
Elendil rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There’s Tigôn, one of the King’s pages. His family is of the Elendili.”  
  
“Ah yes, the son of your friend Lord Eärdur of Eldalondë.”  
  
“You remember that Tigôn and his brother Zoganîr used to come visit when we summered at Andúnië. I was the one who put in a good word for him to be taken into the King’s service, so he owes me a favor.”  
  
“I do remember,” Amandil said, his eyes lighting. He nodded. “Do you think he could be persuaded to watch and report to you? He may not want to become involved.”  
  
Elendil nodded. “I think it’s a matter of appealing to the boy’s sense of loyalty to both our families and to Númenor. I’ll try to find a quiet moment to speak with him.”  
  
“We are moving into ever more dangerous waters, ion. We must keep our ship on an even keel.”  
  
“Aye, my Lord Captain,” Elendil agreed.  
  
***********  
  
The evening shadows stretched long across the stony landscape as Dulginzin, son of Izindor, surveyed the field of tumbled boulders decorated with small caps of snow. He grabbed his brother Mirandor’s arm, pulling him back behind a rock. “Look, here he comes,” he hissed.  
  
Mirandor rolled his strange wall-eye. “So what? ‘Tis c-cold out here. I want to g-go in to g-get d-dinner.”  
  
Dulginzin peered out intently. “He’s very pretty, like a girl. I think I’d like a taste of that.”  
  
“Don’t be a f-fool, b-brother,” Mirandor replied. “He’s the King’s p-pet, isn’t he? Father will b-be a-angry with us.”  
  
“He’s heading toward the Zigûr’s tent, taking a short-cut. It’s very suspicious. Maybe we should find out what he’s doing there, huh? Maybe Father would thank us for learning something. And if the little piece of orc-shite doesn’t want to talk, I’ll just have to make him—one way or another.”  
  
Dulginzin paused and licked his lips. He could feel his blood surging with interest as he watched the graceful swaying gait of the King’s Umbarian whore as he picked his way around the rocks. The young man was wearing a fur-lined cloak of dark, red wool with the hood thrown back, revealing long, curling ringlets of black hair, golden skin, delicate cheekbones, and huge, dark eyes. Carrying a steaming wine cup and a basket covered with a cloth napkin, he looked like some serving wench, except that his clothes were beautiful, much finer than a mere servant’s. Red for Eru’s sake! A royal color! For an Umbarian slave to be given such presents and to be so high up in the King’s favor, well, it was a disgrace! It made Dulginzin feel angry, made him want to hold the boy down and beat him senseless, after of course, he had taken his pleasure. He gripped his crotch, finding himself more than adequate for the task.  
  
Mirandor noticed and snickered in that weird snuffling way he had. _Snock, snock, snock._ The sound made Dulginzin want to thrash him too, as he had done often enough when they were growing up.  
  
“Besides,” Dulginzin said, “it’s been two months since I had a girl. No one should be expected to wait that long. And what have we gained from this cursed campaign? No spoils of war like we were promised; no gold or slaves, only frozen feet and terrible food and one paltry captive, which we should have just killed and been done with it. I should have had plenty of slave girls by now. And do not say it! I care not a sardine what Father thinks. After all this annoyance, I’m entitled to some of what the King has. The King owes me. Don’t you think?  
  
“Dulgi, that b-boy, he’ll t-tell the King. You are b-being st-stupid, as usual.”  
  
“Shut your useless mouth! He’s just an Umbarian slave. No one will believe what he says over the word of a blooded noble of Númenor.”  
  
“Ohhhh, this is b-bound to be tr-trouble.” Mirandor folded his arms and looked stubborn.  
  
“Well, I’ll not bandy words with you little brother,” Dulginzin said. “All you need do is hold him down, keep watch, and yell if you see anyone coming. If you do that, maybe I’ll let you have a piece of him.”  
  
Mirandor giggled as greed lit up his eyes. “Ooh yes, like last year with th-that flute g-girl. I like t-to watch when you d-do it to them, Dulgi!”  
  
Dulginzin looked around. In the distance, he could see warriors moving among the tents. The company was setting up camp for the evening and all seemed unaware, busy with their own affairs amidst the noise and confusion. Now was his chance. His moronic brother had disappeared. No time to worry about what he was up to. The Umbarian was close. Quickly, Dulginzin stepped out in front of him. “Say mîki, where might you be going?” he said, leaning casually against a boulder.  
  
The pretty thing halted and raised his chin in an unbearably haughty gesture. “‘Tis none of your affair, son of Izindor,” he said.  
  
He started to walk by but Dulginzin moved to block his passage. “How dare a mere whore tell me what is or is not my business.”  
  
The Umbarian stepped back, his glance like a drawn sword. “The King will not take kindly to your disrespect.”  
  
“Disrespect! As if you were owed any respect!” Dulginzin raised his fist. “You’ll answer the questions I put to you, slave, and you’ll do as I say, or suffer the consequences. Now set down those things and come here.”  
  
“I see no reason why I should obey you. You’re not my master. Now, don’t hinder my errand; it’s for the King.”  
  
Dulginzin lunged forward and punched him in the gut. The boy let out a sudden whoosh of breath as he doubled over, dropping the basket but managing to keep hold of the cup. Dulginzin laughed. “You’ll soon find out that it is I, Dulginzin, who is your master. If you take off your breeches now and bend over, maybe I won’t hit you again. No guarantees though.”  
  
Suddenly, the boy straightened up, raising his arm so quickly and gracefully that Dulginzin didn’t realize what he was doing until he felt a scalding splash against the side of his face. Ai, that hurt! He grabbed his cloak and wiped his face, looking up in time to hear the clang of the cup on the ground and see the boy fleeing through the rocks. Filled with rage, he drew his knife and started after him, but the little beast was quick. When the boy looked back over his shoulder, Dulginzin could see his face, white with fear. Good. That’s what he wanted, the whore cowering before him, wanted to hear him cry out in pain. Curse the luck, the gap had widened between them.  
  
Then Mirandor emerged from behind a rock with his head down like a bull and rammed full-tilt into the Umbarian, knocking him sprawling to the ground. So, that deformed weasel of a brother was good for something after all. Maybe he would give him some of the spoils.  
  
The boy punched Mirandor in the jaw, knocking him to the side and was trying to rise when Dulginzin flung himself on top of him. He pressed the tip of his knife into the boy’s side. “Stop wriggling or I’ll gut you,” he said.  
  
The boy stilled and his body became rigid. Mirandor grasped his wrists, hauling them over his head. “I’ve g-got him, Dulgi,” he crowed. “D-do it n-now. T-take him.”  
  
Dulginzin worked his cold fingers under the tunic trying to find the buttons to the boy’s breeches.  
  
“The King will kill you for this,” the boy hissed. “I swear it!”  
  
“The King won’t do anything because he’ll never find your body,” Dulginzin growled. “He’ll just think you ran away.” He grinned in anticipation as he managed to jerk the boy’s breeches apart and wrench them down off the slim hips.  
  
“No, please,” the boy’s voice caught. The haughty tone had given way to a sound of whimpering fear, like a puppy. It was just what Dulginzin wanted. Now if the little shite would just stop wriggling. He was twisting away from Dulginzin’s probing hand.  
  
“D-do it to him, m-make him scream,” Mirandor giggled.  
  
“I said, hold still,” Dulginzin snarled. He freed himself from his own trousers and took himself in hand.  
  
“What do you want? Gold? Jewelry? I can get you whatever you want,” the boy pleaded. His delicate face was almost ugly with fear.  
  
“What I want, you filthy piece of Umbarian trash,” Dulginzin sneered as he pressed up close, feeling the smooth warmth of skin against his loins, “is to rape you bloody and then cut you into little pieces and leave you for the crows. You aren’t worth a twist of straw except as a hot little hole. Ummm, but you are a sweet little piece aren’t you? No wonder the King keeps you around.”  
  
The boy twisted violently under him and then released a harrowing wail. It was the tearing sound of someone gone mad, and for a moment, Dulginzin paused, taken aback by the strangeness of it.  
  
“Dulgi, w-watch out!” Mirandor called in sudden warning.  
  
“What in Morgoth’s wrath are you doing, boy!”  
  
At the sound of his father’s voice, Dulginzin looked up, then rocked back on his knees, quickly fumbling himself back into his breeches before he felt a sharp blow to the side of his head. For a moment he couldn’t hear anything on that side. Blinking tears from his eyes, Dulginzin rolled away from the next blow from his father’s knotted staff.  
  
“No, F-Father, no,” Mirandor was whimpering. He was on his back with one hand raised against his father’s fury. “D-dulgi made me d-do it; he said he’d hurt me if I d-d-didn’t.”  
  
“You little traitor,” Dulginzin hissed.  
  
“Silence, both of you.” Izindor reached his hand to Sûla, offering to help him up. “A thousand apologies, Cupbearer, for this . . . inconvenience.”  
  
“Inconvenience!” Sûla cried, refusing the hand. Your filthy son tried to rape me! And he threatened murder! Do you have any idea how angry this will make the King?” He pulled up his breeches and then staggered to his feet. “He has hung others for less offense than this.”  
  
Dulginzin’s head throbbed and his knees were cold from kneeling in the snow. He began to wonder if, in fact, he had done something stupid. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.  
  
“Yes, but you won’t tell him about this, will you?” Izindor said in a calculating tone.  
  
“I think I shall!”  
  
“I think not. I can offer you payment if you keep quiet, a substantial sum.” Izindor opened a bag that hung at his waist, pulled out two gold sovereigns and grasping Sûla’s wrist, pressed them into his palm. Sûla spat on them and cast them to the ground with a ringing clatter. Izindor frowned. “If you reject this offer and tell the King, I will swear before the Bawîba Manô priest that you tried to seduce Dulginzin. Both my sons will attest to it. It will be your word against ours. And you know that the King needs the friendship and the military might of the Lords of Arandor, probably more than he needs a little cupbearer. There are always more where you came from.” He smirked. “That being the case, who do you think he’ll choose to believe? Hmmm?”  
  
The King’s whore hesitated. He cast a look of impotent fury at Dulginzin, who immediately felt better, despite the pain on the side of his head. He should have trusted his father to know what to do. Too bad he hadn’t had time to finish. His balls ached. Well, he could bide his time. There were many deserted corridors in the palace.  
  
“Come, do we have an agreement?” Izindor scooped up the money and handed it back to the boy with the smile that Dulginzin had seen so many times before in a situation where Father had the upper hand.  
  
“Do you promise that your son will stay away from me?” Sûla snarled.  
  
“Of course,” Izindor replied. “Isn’t that right, son?” At that he struck Dulginzin’s head again with an open palm.  
  
“Uh, huh,” Dulginzin grunted.  
  
The boy hesitated, his mouth working in anger, then he nodded, and walked quickly away.  
  
Izindor fetched Dulginzin another rap on the ear. “Stupid boy! Don’t think this is the end of this. You best learn to keep your prick buttoned up or by Ossë, you’ll come to a bad end.”  
  
“Yes, Father,” Dulginzin said sullenly. Behind his father’s back Mirandor was giggling like some old hag. Well, at least he could make his brother pay for his betrayal, quietly behind the tent.  
  
*************  
Sûla hadn’t realized how much he was shaking until he picked up the cup that he’d dropped. He upended it, dribbling out the last of the wine onto the ground. The basket had overturned, scattering the meat, bread, and cheese on the wet surface. That was a loss too. He’d have to go back to the cook’s tent and obtain more. He grabbed his breeches which were sliding off his hips and discovered that several of the buttons had popped off. How could he repair this without the King finding out? Suddenly he was overwhelmed with anguish. The effort to keep standing was too much; his legs give way under him, and he collapsed to the ground, sobbing.  
  
Vividly, he remembered a time when his stepfather Khunig had caught him playing when he should have been sweeping out the ashes from the forge. He had grabbed Sûla by the hair and bent him over a bucket of soapy water, plunging his head into it repeatedly until Sûla was sure he was drowning. Sûla choked, struggled, and begged, “Please father, I won’t do it again! Please don’t kill me.” There was momentary relief when Khunig emptied the bucket over his head, allowing him to lie on the floor half-drowned, gulping air like a fish, but it was not over. Not at all. The deep, angry voice still echoed in his ears, “You boy, are a filthy whore, good for nothing except this. This will teach you your place!”  
  
Was it true? Was he good for nothing except . . .? He’d thought that being the King’s servant would raise him above such degradations. It seemed he was wrong. That bastard Dulginzin and his creepy brother and father! He wanted to kill them all! No, better, he wanted to chop off Dulginzin’s prick and stuff it down his throat! What would happen if he told the King and Izindor carried out his threat? Would Ar-Pharazôn really believe he had tried to seduce Dulginzin? Sûla thought that the King trusted him more than that. He had been faithful; he’d never had relations with anyone behind the King’s back, even though he’d been tempted more than once by other lords, not to mention the other zirâmîkin, but he had known better than to provoke the King’s wrath and risk disfavor. Then again, it was true that Arandor was an important political ally. Bitterly, Sûla realized that he wasn’t sure at all that the King would protect him. Better to leave things as they stood. Wiping his eyes clear as well as he could on his cloak, he got up. There was only one thing to do, continue, as if nothing were wrong. That had always been his recourse in the past.  
  
********  
  
When Sûla entered the tent he found Annatar crouched on the ground drawing something in the dirt with a stick. His face was obscured by that waterfall of fiery red hair. Quickly, Sûla glanced up at the guards standing by the door of the tent. They did not appear to be paying any attention, and in fact, their faces held no expression at all. That was a trifle odd.  
  
Annatar raised his head and looked at him with those golden, cat-like eyes. “You’re late,” he said. Almost casually, he scuffed over whatever he’d been drawing, rose, and sat on his hassock. Despite the clinking chains, he still looked like some great king granting an audience.  
  
Rattled, Sûla said, “My pardon, my Lord, it could not be helped. I brought your wine.” He handed him the cup and quickly began laying out dinner on a low table. By Zizzûn, his hands were shaking.  
  
Setting down the cup, Annatar reached out and grasped Sûla’s chin, raising his face to look into his eyes. “Something has happened to you,” he observed. “Something unpleasant. Don’t think I can’t feel it.”  
  
“I . . . , my Lord, forgive me,” Sûla stammered. He wrenched away from Annatar’s hand. Curse it, he was shaking all over now. He did not want Annatar to see him so weak.  
  
“Sûla, look at me,” Annatar commanded. Reluctantly Sûla raised his eyes to stare into those strange golden depths in which a fire seemed to flicker. “Ah that’s better,” Annatar said. “Now, you were about to tell me what has frightened you so.”  
  
Sûla glanced at the guards.  
  
“Do not bother with them. They do not hear you,” Annatar said. “Look!” He stood and snapped his fingers at one of the guards, who merely flapped his hand by his face as if brushing off a fly.  
  
“What have you done to them?” Sûla asked.  
  
“It is of no importance. Now tell me.”  
  
“I was bringing your dinner when . . . Ai, I’m so ashamed,” Sûla said. He crumpled to the floor and hid his face in his hands. “I should not say anything, but I don’t know what to do.”  
  
“I may be able to help you,” Annatar said. “You need not speak. Keep still.” He sank down next to Sûla, closed his eyes, and cupped his hand over Sûla’s head. “You have been assaulted,” he concluded.  
  
Startled, Sûla looked up. “How did you know?”  
  
“Because I can feel the shape of violence about you. It is like a snake coiled about your chest. Feel it? It is slowly squeezing.”  
  
Suddenly Sûla could feel pressure winding about his chest. He gasped, barely able to breathe and that scared him even worse.  
  
“You escaped damage, but it has triggered evil memories. Am I right?”  
  
“Yes,” Sûla said, and began to cry. He struggled to control himself but the tears seemed to flow unchecked. “It was that worm, Dulginzin; he’s the son of Izindor, Lord of Arandor. He tried to, he almost . . .”  
  
“Hush.” Annatar leaned forward and kissed Sûla’s forehead. The effect was chilling to the blood but suddenly Sûla felt calm, almost as if he were drunk.  He could breathe again. “You have every right to be outraged for such an offense,” Annatar continued in that purring, soothing voice. “Yes, I am getting images of that young man’s face, twisted in lust. Very nasty. But I am seeing something else. Who is this large man with the great black beard?”  
  
“You can see that?” Sûla asked, appalled.  
  
“I have many powers,” Annatar said. “Strong emotions carry images which I can see. Did you think the appellation ‘Zigûr’ was a mere flattery?”  
  
“My Lord, I did not know the extent of your power.”  
  
“Nor do you now.” Annatar’s lip curled. “So who was that man?”  
  
“Khunig, my step-father. He married my mother when my father died and took over the family business, but he hated me, and he, he hurt me, many times.”  
  
“Yes, I can feel that,” Annatar said. He shivered as if excited. His eyes filled with a strange glow.  
  
Swallowing heavily, Sûla attempted to draw away but Annatar grasped his shoulders.  
  
“I can help you,” Annatar purred. “Come, sit with me.” He stood and raised Sûla to his feet, then drew up another hassock, opposite the small table. He picked up the cup of hot wine and pressed it into Sûla’s trembling hand. “Drink,” he said. “It’ll do you good.”  
  
“Oh no, my Lord. This is yours. It is not for the likes of me.”  
  
“You, Hadon,” Annatar sharply addressed one of the guards. “I am in need of another cup of hot wine for my guest.” The guard stirred, made a short bow, and left. Sûla stared after him speechless. What had Annatar done? He should be running immediately to report it to the King. Instead, he took a soothing gulp of the wine.  
  
Annatar chuckled softly. “Ah yes, the guards and I have arrived at an understanding. I may be Ar-Pharazôn’s prisoner, but I am not to be treated as some base slave, I who was the Lord of all Middle-earth.” His sumptuous mouth twisted. “You also are worthy of much better treatment, my dear Sûla. We are slaves of the same powerful man, you and I; as such, we have much in common. Now tell me everything that happened, in detail.”  
  
Throwing all sense of caution to the winds, Sûla told him. It gave him a strange thrill to confide in someone who at one time had the power to become a ravening wolf able to rip out Dulginzin’s throat.  All the while Annatar listened, he absently played with the iron cuff about one wrist, making a soft chinking noise. Finally he said, “And you fear the King would not support you over this Izindor?”  
  
“I fear he would not. Izindor is correct. He is a powerful ally to the King, and what am I, my Lord, but a pleasure boy.” The words came bitterly to Sûla’s lips.  
  
“Yes, that is true,” Annatar said, “as long as that is how you think about yourself.”  
  
Stricken, Sûla hung his head. “Perhaps, I should go now. His Majesty will want my services soon.” He started to rise.  
                             
“Stay,” Annatar said. Sûla found himself sitting back down as abruptly as if he’d been pushed. “You have the right to be angry, Sûla, and fearful as well. You are beautiful and it is no wonder you awaken lust in others.” Here he stroked Sûla’s cheek with a cool hand. “But you have much more to offer than just your beauty. You are clever enough to have worked your way up to the King’s bedchamber. If you play your game right, you could rise even higher until you are so powerful that no one will dare offend you.”  
  
“Ha! It is more likely that someday soon I’ll lose the King’s favor and end up sucking cock in some back ally of Armenelos."  
  
Annatar looked off into the distance. “That is one possible future,” he said. “There are others.”  
  
“Can you see the future?” Sûla asked with a surge of wonder, even as he felt sick at the prospect of having one of his worst fears confirmed.  
  
“No one can clearly predict what will happen,” Annatar said. “I can sense possibilities, can trace along the many threads that make up the future. It is useful only in a limited way because actions taken to prevent an outcome may actually bring it about. This prediction is certain, however: as things presently stand, Dulginzin will attack you again and this time he will succeed.”  
  
“No,” Sûla whispered. He began to shiver again. “What am I to do? Carry around a knife? I hate feeling so helpless! It’s like waiting for Khunig to come home at night, knowing he would be drunk and angry.”  
  
“My dear friend, you have been much wronged in your life, through no fault of your own. Would you like something that could protect you from such fiends?” Annatar’s voice rumbled like a great cat. His fingers stretched and retracted on the smooth surface of the table, scraping his nails as if they were claws.  
  
“What? What can you do?” Sûla asked eagerly.  
  
“First I must know if you are trustworthy. Did you tell the King the secret I told you?”  
  
“No, my Lord.”  
  
Annatar took his chin and stared into his eyes. “You are speaking the truth. Good. I am pleased. Most pleased.”  
  
Sûla flushed with pleasure. “When I make a promise, my Lord, I keep it.”  
  
“A man of honor I see. Very well then, I shall give you a gift that will keep you safe from assault. But it will come at a price.”  
  
“What price?” A warning sounded at the back of Sûla’s thoughts. _Don’t trust this creature. If you become more deeply involved, the King will find out and execute you in some extremely painful way._ But Sûla was too intrigued by Annatar’s offer. He had to find out what it was, Zizzûn help him.  
  
“Nothing so terrible. You will now tell the King about the key ingredient of the elixir of eternal youth. Tell him I know how to make it but that I said I would never do it for him. You must say that I tried to make you lie to him about it, that I tried to seduce you, but that you resisted. Tell him about my attempted seduction in detail. Make up those details. I’m sure you have a good enough imagination to do so.”  
  
“Yes, I can do that,” Sûla agreed happily. This would free him from his earlier dilemma of keeping information from the King, even if he was embellishing the truth. It was easy to imagine Annatar seducing him, to imagine those long hands caressing him all over, while that voice purred in his ear. In fact, it would be quite hard to resist.  
  
There was a motion at the doorflap and Sûla started, but it was merely the returning guard. He placed a cup of hot wine before Annatar, inclined his head, and went back to his position at the door.  
  
Sûla said, “So, how can I keep the likes of Dulginzin and his odious brother at bay?”  
  
“I will give you words of power that will freeze a man into stillness for a short period of time, long enough so that you can escape unscathed from any unpleasant situation, and will leave your attacker with no memory of the event. The man must be alone though or others will see what you have done.”  
  
“Yes!” Sûla cried, clapping his hands together. That was perfect!  
  
“You haven’t heard it all yet,” Annatar said with a flash of the eyes. “At some point in the future, I will ask a small favor of you, which you must do for me. If you refuse, your power will disappear and anyone on whom you’ve used the words will remember what happened in full detail.”  
  
“Oh,” Sûla hesitated, but the temptation was too great. “Yes, my Lord,” he said. “What are these words that have such power?”  
  
“Kiss me,” Annatar said.  
  
“That’s it?” Sûla asked, puzzled.  
  
“No, you must take the words from my lips.” That shapely mouth curved upwards in a sly smile, displaying white teeth. For the first time, Sûla noticed that the two incisors were slightly pointed, like fangs, perhaps the remnant of Annatar’s ability to change into a wolf. Sûla found it dreadfully attractive, but still he hesitated. “Is that such a terrible thing to ask?” Annatar said.  
  
“No, my Lord. It is not so terrible.” Sûla stood and bent forward slowly. Annatar reached up with a clink of chains and clasped the back of his head drawing him in. His lips felt tasty as ripe plums under his own, very sensual and exciting, more so than he ever remembered with the King. They moved forcefully, with a promise of unspeakable delights. Overcome, Sûla wished to give some pleasure in return. He reached up and stroked Annatar’s pointed ears between thumb and forefinger. Annatar shuddered and moaned. With a hissing gasp, he exhaled words into Sula’s mouth. At first it was like tasting some miasma of wine gone bad. Then, it thrummed throughout his entire being, ending like a thunderclap. He stood bolt upright, shocked, and then stared down into Annatar’s knowing eyes. With that flaming hair streaming down his shoulders, that sculpted elfin face, and those golden catlike eyes, he appeared as beautiful and deadly as a fire crackling upon a hearth. Perhaps it was the smartest move Sûla had yet made in his young life to ally himself with him.  
  
“Thank you, my Lord,” Sûla said.  
  
Annatar laughed softly. “You are lovely, Sûla. It’s tempting to seduce you in actuality, but we cannot have that. It would complicate things. Now, go about your duties. If you carry out your part of our bargain, no one will be able to take advantage of you, ever again. I promise.”  
  
****************************  
Sûla crept up to Izindor’s camp, holding his hood close about his face. It was late. He hadn’t much time as he’d been dismissed from the King’s presence on the pretext of needing to relieve himself and the latrine tent wasn’t far away. But he was itching to see if Annatar’s spell would work. There was a small fire in the clearing near the tents of the Arandor encampment. Next to it crouched a bulky figure, his back to Sûla. His elbow was lifted high, bobbing up and down. What was he doing? There came a pained squeaking seemingly from a small animal. Sûla crept closer, moving silently through the undergrowth, and peered out from behind a large boulder.  
  
Dulginzin had snared a small ground squirrel. The soldiers often hunted them to supplement their diet; squirrel pie was in much demand, but it didn’t seem like something a noble’s son would do as he had plenty of servants to hunt for him. Sûla moved to the other side of the boulder to get a better look and then his gut twisted with disgust. Dulginzin held the squirrel by a string attached to its tail and was dangling it over the fire. The poor beast was crying; its small body curling and writhing in an effort to get away.  
  
Oh you pitiful thing, Sûla thought, I know just how you feel. That piece of orc shite! Dulginzin certainly deserved to have something horrible happen to him. However, Sûla knew he needed to be cautious, give himself enough space to run in case it didn’t work. Annatar had said that the spell would only be effective for a few moments. Long enough, he hoped. Slowly, heart pounding, he stood and called out, “Dulginzin!”  
  
Dulginzin’s head snapped around. Holding the string carrying the hapless squirrel, he stood up and peered into the darkness. “Who’s there?” he called.  
  
The words of power formed on Sûla’s lips, an ugly hissing sound. It suddenly burst forth as if on the wings of a storm, shaking the bare branches of the trees overhead. Dulginzin stood as if turned to stone, the squirrel dangling from his hand. Sûla waited a moment and when his enemy remained frozen, crept up to him, poked him hard in the arm, and then darted backward. No response. He slapped him. Dulginzin swayed slightly, but otherwise did not react. Amazing! A strange feeling came over Sûla, one that he had seldom felt in his life. He could do anything he pleased to Dulginzin. For a moment, he entertained thoughts of slitting his throat and letting his life’s blood pump out onto the frozen ground, but no, a murder would raise too many questions, especially given his earlier encounter. Izindor would certainly suspect.  
  
He flicked a fingernail against Dulginzin’s chest. “Oh, what a big, strong man, you are, a low-life lout, hiding behind your father’s title. Not so much now, are you? I can do anything I like to you and no one will know.”  
  
The squirrel, evidently not affected by the spell, squeaked pathetically and Sûla had a thought that made him laugh. It was perfect. He pried the string from his enemy’s hand and held up the squirrel, looking into its terrified face. “Hello my little friend. Tell me, would you like some revenge?” The squirrel blinked at him solemnly, as if he understood.  Jerking open Dulginzin’s breeches, Sûla plopped the creature inside, hastily knotted up the ties, and then retreated behind the boulder where he counted to ten.  
  
Dulginzin raised a hand to his face as if bewildered, twitched, then suddenly clapped both hands to his crotch and let out a howl. Batting frantically at the small roving lump within, he sought to undo the reluctant knots. When that endeavor proved unsuccessful, he began running about in a circle, hopping up and down and yipping, “Aiiii! By the dog!” As far as Sûla could see, Dulginzin’s exertions merely managed to drive the lump further down into the region of his balls. Face turning bright red, he grabbed both sides of his laces and wrenched apart the fabric. The squirrel’s head emerged from its prison, seemingly sporting a grin. The sight was so amusing that Sûla had to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from laughing. Then the squirrel clawed its way free, much to Dulginzin’s increasing distress, leaped to the ground, and pelted off into the darkness.  
  
Izindor roared from a nearby tent,“What in the name of all Morgoth’s wrath is wrong with you, boy?”  
  
Time to go. Sûla slipped off into the night, biting his lips until he was a good distance away. Then, he doubled over, clutching his sides and shaking with laughter. Dulginzin had gotten exactly what he deserved. Never again need Sûla fear him or anyone else for that matter. The sudden rush of power made him light-headed as if he’d gulped down an entire cup of wine.  
  
************  
Zoganîr - Tigôn’s older brother.  Invented Adûnaic.  
  
-tbc-  
 


	8. Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sûla plays a game with Tigôn, the King's page, in which more is going on than appears on the surface.

When Sûla entered the royal tent, he was surprised to see Tigôn, the page, sitting on a cushion at the foot of the King’s chair, his high cheekbones painted starkly in the light of a fire from a nearby brazier. He was playing a solitary form of knucklebones and had just deftly caught one of them on the back of his hand. Sûla was intrigued by his presence and also a little suspicious. He cleared his throat.  
  
“Good eve to you, mîki,” he said. “What keeps you up so late?”  
  
Tigôn raised his curly head, fixing Sûla with a sharp glance. “I am wondering the same about you,” he said.  
  
“Went to the latrine,” Sûla said. He thought of Dulginzin's expression as the squirrel emerged from his pants and had to suppress a smile. “Is that a crime?”  
  
“Not yet anyway,” Tigôn replied. His mouth quirked into a thin smile that Sûla found most encouraging. “I’m, uh, waiting on the King’s pleasure,” Tigôn continued. “He said he might have a message to convey later this evening.”  
  
“Waiting on the King’s pleasure,” Sûla said with a shrug. “I thought that was my task.”  
  
“I’d say that’s the task of most of us here, in one way or another,” Tigôn grunted. “Do you want to play?”  
  
Sûla glanced toward the King’s bedroom adjacent to the audience chamber. “I ought to go in.”  
  
“His Majesty’s asleep. Can you not hear the snoring?” Tigôn said. “Just a short game of ratcatcher. What d’ye say? It’ll help me to pass the time until he decides to wake up and send me off somewhere.” The smile became more charming and Sûla found it irresistible. It seemed everything was going well for him tonight.  
  
“One game, perhaps.” Sûla flopped down next to Tigôn and picked up one of the bones, weighing it in his hand. “What’s the wager?”  
  
“Do you want to play for money? In any event, I don’t have any,” Tigôn replied. “I thought we could just play for the glory of winning.”  
  
“There are things other than money we could bet.”  
  
“What d’ye have in mind?”  
  
“Too bad we can’t play for switching duties for one night.” Sûla grinned at him. “I think I’d like your job, running around camp relaying messages. T’would be an easy night for me.” He stretched.  
  
“You think my work is easy?” Tigôn snorted. “Try finding Lord Azgarad when the army is on the move, or remembering some long message from the King that he’s changed several times, or having Lord Rothîbal argue with you about one of the King’s edicts, as if I have any say about the matter, or waiting outside for hours in the sleet. Besides I couldn’t do your . . .” He stopped abruptly.  
  
“Couldn’t do my job?” Sûla looked at him from under his lids, hoping his expression was innocent. “You couldn’t pour out the wine at banquets? Help the King dress?”  
  
“That’s not all you do,” Tigôn said.  
  
“What exactly are my other duties?” Sûla cooed. “What is so distasteful that you couldn’t bring yourself to do it?”  
  
Tigôn wouldn’t look at him. “I’m not having this conversation with you. What do you want to wager, then? He dug into his vest pocket. I have three silver buttons here, newly acquired so I haven’t had time to sew them on. What can you offer?”  
  
Sûla leaned forward with a smirk. “I could offer you the best time of your life.” He ran his tongue across his upper lip.  
  
Tigôn nervously rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, as if wiping away the very thought. “I, no, uh, I’m not like that, Sûla.”  
  
“Not like what?” Sûla demanded in a low voice. “A zirâmîki? One who bends over for another’s pleasure? Not like me, you mean?”  
  
“Hush!” Tigôn’s eyes darted towards the flap of canvas that separated them from the King. “I don’t care what others do in bed. I just don’t like, um, boys, is all.”  
  
“How do you know? Have you ever kissed one? Kissed anyone? Boy or girl?” Tigôn’s quick blush and downcast eyes told Sûla everything he wanted to know. “Ah, a virgin. I thought so. I could take care of that for you. You’d have cause to thank me.” Sûla leaned close, allowing his breath to fan the page's face. Tigôn jerked away.  
  
“Why do you always bait me like this, Sûla? Just get it through your head, I’m not interested. In any event, it would be too dangerous. Now back off, and wager something else.” Tigôn glared at him.  
  
Bait him? Did he? It was true, now that he thought about it. Sûla paused to consider why he acted that way. Was it the page’s innocence that provoked him? Did he envy Tigôn his position of respectability? Or was it something else? Well, certainly Tigôn spoke truth, that it would be too dangerous to have relations with him. Sûla opened the pouch at his waist, shook out one of the golden sovereigns Izindor had given him, and cast it on the ground between them. “Sufficient?”  
  
Tigôn’s eyes grew round. “I don’t have anything equivalent to that.”  
  
Sûla resisted saying, oh yes you do, thinking that Tigôn would consider it more baiting and right now he was enjoying Tigôn’s company and did not want to jeopardize it. “I’ll let the difference in value stand. Now are we going to play, or not?”  
  
“Very well, but don’t blame me if you get the raw end of the deal,” Tigôn said.  
  
“Call it,” Sûla said.  
  
“Cat’s paw.”  
  
“Old man,” Sûla countered. He tossed a bone in the air and watched it land on the long side. “Ah, you start.”  
  
Tigôn scooped up the bones, cast them out, and then began the first round by tossing one up in the air, plucking another off the ground and sweeping it into a cave formed by his other hand, all done in a blur of movement before catching the one he’d thrown. He repeated the action until all four bones had been captured. “Rats in the hole,” he said. “All gone to ground. Next set.” He rolled the bones out again, and repeated the cycle, throwing up two bones this time. “Hen’s teeth, missed. Your turn. Do you want some wine?”  
  
“Yeh,” Sûla said, absorbed by the game. He heard Tigôn get up and the sloppy sound of liquid being ladled from the pot hanging over the brazier into a cup.  
  
“Straight or watered?” Tigôn called.  
  
“Two-thirds,” Sûla said. He paused the game long enough to grin up at Tigôn. “I’m not as dissipated as you may think.”  
  
“Who said I thought you dissipated?” Tigôn replied. “I don’t know you well. For all I know you are as ascetic as a Bawîba Manô priest.” He returned and set down two tall ceramic mugs on the ground. He raised one towards Sûla. “A chuil,” he said.  
  
Sûla looked up at him sharply. “That’s Elvish? You know it’s forbidden.”          
  
Tigôn smiled, a bit nervously Sûla thought.  
  
“Old habit,” Tigôn said. “My family is from Andúnië and long have they retained the old ways. It’s just a toast, Sûla.”  
  
Sûla smiled and clicked his cup against Tigôn’s. “Well, to life then. An old family? Who is your father?”  
  
“Lord Eärdur.  He’s the younger brother of Lord Vëandur of Eldalondë. We used to spend summers in Andúnië nigh to the old havens. Valar, but I miss the smell of salt air and the cry of the gulls.”  
  
“Andúnië, huh?” Sûla said. “Land of Sunset. They say the elves from Aman used to come to those shores in white swan boats, long oars beating like dragonfly wings.”  
  
“So they did. Long ago,” Tigôn said mournfully. “No more. I have never seen an elf. Have you?”  
  
“No. But they say the Lord Annatar looks just like one. If that’s true, then the elves are surpassing fair. Like none other.”  
  
Tigôn glanced eagerly at him. “The Lord Annatar. I’ve heard you have become a personal servant to him. Is that so?”  
  
Sûla kept his voice carefully neutral. “I deliver his meals, is all.”  
  
“But you’ve had a chance to converse with him. What is he like?  
  
“Charming, like a cat curling around your legs at suppertime.”  
  
“Is he? That’s not the picture I had of him, but then I saw him in the tent the other morning, when he first arrived. He frightened me. Doesn’t he frighten you?”  
  
“No, he doesn’t. Oh, by Zizzûn’s arse! Missed. It’s yours. No, he hasn’t done anything to frighten me. He is chained up and watched by guards.”  
  
“Would the chains stop him, do you think, if he decided to cast a spell on someone?”  
  
Suddenly suspicious, Sûla looked carefully at Tigôn, whose eyes were fixed on the scatter of little bones. “I think he’s contained,” Sûla replied. “If he wasn’t, wouldn’t he try to free himself?”  
  
“Why should he? He surrendered. It must have been for some reason. I find it hard to believe he’s leaving Barad-dûr just like that, without there being some reason behind it.”  
  
“Is that what they’re saying out there, Tigôn? That he is plotting something?”  
  
Their eyes met.  
  
“Some of the men, the wise ones, are saying that taking him back to Númenor is like trying to hand-feed a dragon,” Tigôn said. “At some point he’ll open his mouth and scorch us to cinders.”  
  
“Or perhaps he’ll offer us the greatest gift we could ever receive? You heard him. He was standing right over there.” Sûla pointed to the middle of the tent. “Perhaps we could become immortal—like the elves. Then we too could sail to Aman in white boats with golden oars.”  
  
There was a long pause while Tigôn continued playing, his lips pursed in concentration, finally he missed and swept the pieces towards Sûla. Sitting back on his heels, he said, “Is that what you believe, Sûla, that Annatar would truly give us such a gift, without wanting a terrible price in return?”  
  
“What I believe, and what you believe, have no importance,” Sûla replied. “It is what the King believes that rules our destiny, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes, so what does the King believe?” Tigôn asked.  
  
“He believes he is preventing war in Middle-earth and so of course that is my truth as well. Rats in the hole, all gone to ground. Advancing to next set.”  
  
Tigôn laid a hand on his arm and spoke so softly that Sûla could barely hear him. “Are your loyalties exclusively with the King? Or do they lie with larger principles?” Here he made a strange sign, a quick circle drawn with a forefinger over his heart.  
  
Under his breath, Sûla said, “I question your wisdom in even asking such a thing. My loyalties are first and foremost to the King. Aren’t yours?”  
  
“Of course.” Tigôn smiled a little too brightly. “I work for him; I keep his secrets. I am as loyal as you are.”  
  
Again they looked at each other. Sûla wondered what was going on behind that carefully bland expression. Their conversation had indeed veered towards dangerous ground and he had the sense of being felt out, tested. Normally, Tigôn’s eyes were a bright guileless blue like a summer sky in Umbar, but now they seemed hooded, as if he were watching Sûla from under his lids. His mouth quirked wryly at the corners. It looked tender, inviting. Suddenly, Sûla wanted to kiss him, wanted to feel Tigôn open up and accept him as their tongues brushed together, slick and warm. He shook it off and focussed on the next set of the game, tossing and sweeping the bones in rapid succession.  
  
“You’re good at this,” Tigôn said. “Where did you learn to play?”  
  
“On the slave ship coming over to Númenor,” Sûla said. “Only there we would play for an extra cup of stale water or a crust of bread. Winning was a matter of survival.”  
  
“Oh,” Tigôn said. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”  
  
Sûla replied, “No need to be sorry, mîki. Just remember that while you got your position because your father is a great lord, I got mine because I know how to take care of myself. Rats in the hole, all gone to ground. I’ve won.”  
  
“Damn,” Tigôn said, staring in disbelief. “Well then, here you go. I’ll have to wait a while longer to improve the appearance of my coat.” He handed over the silver buttons.  
  
“I know just the place for them,” Sûla said. Truly the night was going his way for once. He could use these to replace the buttons that had come off his breeches earlier.  
  
“Good game,” Tigôn said. “We’ll have to play again some time so I can have a go at winning back my buttons.”  
  
“It’ll be unlikely that I’ll bet them next time. You don’t want my breeches to fall off, do you?” Sûla laughed.  
  
“No, indeed,” Tigôn said, but with a grin. He stood and offered Sûla a hand up.“Well, it's getting late. If the King wakes, can you come get me in my tent?  
  
"I expect I could do that."  
  
Suddenly it became awkward between them, neither knowing whether they should embrace before calling it a night. Sûla coughed. “Sure you don’t want that kiss?”  
  
“Oh, uh, no.” Tigôn wouldn’t look at him. “Well, good night then.”  
  
Disappointment washed unexpectedly over Sûla until he remembered that he had the power to take what he wanted when he wanted. “Tigôn,” he said clearly and when Tigôn’s head jerked up, Sûla spoke the words. There was a disturbance in the tent. The fire in the brazier blew sideways for a moment, first one way, then the other, as if caught in a rush of air and Tigôn froze in place, lips parted as if about to speak. Amazing!  
  
“So, you think you can deny me something I want,” Sûla said to him. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Tigôn’s. They were warm and moist and tasted of mulled wine. Flushed with audacity, Sûla kissed him again as his hand wandered down to explore forbidden territory. Oh, he wanted more. Then he heard the King’s bed creak heavily. Was he getting up? No, no! Tigôn was still under the spell! He would be found out. Quickly, Sûla went to the doorflap. “My Lord?” he inquired.  
  
“Sûla, what are you doing up so late?” The bed creaked again. Definitely, he was getting up. Sûla picked up his cup, flew to the wine cauldron, ladled some wine into it, then came back and intercepted the King just as he was lifting the doorflap. He pushed into the dark, cold bedroom, colliding with his master.  
  
“I’ve brought you some wine,” Sûla said. “Here, my Lord.”  
  
“Wine? Yes, that’s good,” Ar-Pharazôn said. He took a gulp and sighed. “Come to bed now. It’s late.”  
  
“Did you want to send Tigôn out with a message? He’s been waiting for you.”  
  
“Has he? Tell him to go to bed also. It can wait until morning.”  
  
“Very good, m’Lord.”  
  
Sûla went back to the main tent just as Tigôn was coming unstuck. Moving as jerkily as a marionette, the page put a hand to his head.  
  
“That is odd,” Tigôn said. “How did you move away so fast? You were there and then you weren’t.”  
  
“It’s late and you’re tired. The King said you have leave to go,” Sûla said quickly. “And he, um, requires my services, so I must bid you good night.”  
  
“Uh, yes, good night then.” Slowly Tigôn got up and, with one puzzled backward glance, left by way of the main entrance.  
  
Sûla collapsed onto the cushion, which was still warm from Tigôn’s body. That had been close. He had better be much more careful. In any case, he reflected, the unyielding kiss he’d stolen was not nearly as good as the one he imagined Tigôn might give of his own accord, if properly pursued. There were limits to his power after all. But undoubtedly his new talent would prove useful in other ways. He smiled, then rose and dipped up a nightcap before retiring to the bedroom where he found the King drowsy but still awake.  
  
“I heard voices,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  
  
“I was keeping Tigôn company while he waited for you,” Sûla said. “My apologies if we disturbed you.”  
  
“No, it wasn’t you or Tigôn. It sounded like fell voices in a fierce wind. Just for a moment.”  
  
Sûla cleared his throat and then put all the fear and worry he could into his tone. “My Lord, I do not wish to disturb you so late, but I have something to tell you, something of great import. It’s about the Lord Annatar.”  
  
*****************  
-tbc-    


	9. Melkor’s Apprentice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron (Mairon) remembers the past before drawing the unwitting Ar-Pharazôn further into the web. 
> 
> This chapter comes with a jangling bells warning for violence, non-con, whipping, animal cruelty, Melkor/Sauron and Ar-Pharazôn/Sauron.

A shriek of wind shook the tent, momentarily breaking Mairon’s concentration. Glancing at the stone-faced guards standing by the door, he plucked at the webbing of the spell that kept them compliant. It held. Good. He pulled the blanket closer about his shoulders. What a miserable existence this was: feeling cold and damp and surrounded by irritating dolts. Oh, to be back in the warm confines of Barad-dûr, planning experiments or plotting battles. Sighing, Mairon examined his wrists, red and raw from the chains. His glance fell on his right hand, so naked and vulnerable without the Ring. He rubbed his thumb across the first joint of the middle finger, missing the familiar feeling of smooth, heavy metal, and resolved to find a substitute as soon as possible. But for now, he must shed it from his thoughts. There were things to do.

He adjusted himself more comfortably on the hassock of stuffed cowhide, closed his eyes, and sent forth tendrils of power, hungry as coursing hounds. They sniffed around that oafish lordling Dulginzin as he lay dreaming of violence in his tent. A smile crept onto Mairon’s lips. How easy it had been to manipulate that one, requiring only a slight suggestion when the Umbarian slave boy walked by in Ar-Pharazôn’s tent. Dulginzin’s attack had worked to push Sûla more completely into Mairon’s arms. And indeed, young Sûla was the perfect tool, drawn to authority and desperately needy. Like a master harper tuning a string, Mairon could sense that the King’s catamite was exercising his new-found power upon another hapless boy, the mere use of the spell binding him and the new victim in subtle ways. Mairon softly plucked that thread, knowing that very soon now Sûla would be telling the King the lies he had fed him. Mairon had put the lure properly in place; now he could begin drawing it in. But it must be done with care so that the King would actually welcome the gently tightening noose. This might take years. Mairon’s lips curled in anticipation. Greedily, he sucked on the side of his forefinger. Playing this game was immensely pleasurable, like a powerful aphrodisiac.

But he must brace himself for what was coming. This could prove tricky, perhaps even more than taking down the elves in Ost-in-Edhil had been. He’d have to endure more privation and pain for some time before he could turn events to his advantage. It was challenging to test himself in this manner. Perhaps he might even enjoy it for the sheer sensation. It had been a long time since . . .yes.

* * * *  
His thoughts skipped backward thousands of years to the first time that Melkor had approached him alone, in the guise of one of the newly-awakened Firstborn. In his mind’s eye he saw himself standing at Aulë’s forge set within a shelter, one side open to the leafy clearing so as to dissipate the terrible heat. So intent was he upon watching the metal held in the tongs over the coals as he worked the bellows with his foot, waiting, waiting for the tell-tale blue color that he barely noticed the sensation of another source of heat behind him. Mairon turned, running a hand through his prickly hair, sheared short to avoid being singed in the flames, and startled as the huge form materialized. Melkor. Such an audience was a singular occasion. He set the tongs down next to the hearth and inclined his head. “Your Eminence.”

That sumptuously deep voice, smooth as glass on the surface, but with an underlying gravelly rattle, said, “I have heard that you are Aulë’s most promising apprentice.”

Mairon straightened up, preening a bit, as he looked into Melkor’s glittering gaze. Aulë rarely flattered him, and by Eru, he ought to. “You have heard correctly,” Mairon purred. “There is no task that the Lord Aulë gives me that I do not quickly master.”

“Mmmm, what conceit.” Melkor stretched out his bulk upon an iron bench under the spreading linden tree. In taking the masculine form of the Firstborn, Melkor had chosen an excessive musculature, huge shoulders and a massive chest that tapered down to a slender waist. He wore naught but his long, dark hair, twined with silver thread into numerous snaky plaits, and a fine cloth kilt of iridescent colors tucked around his loins that covered a singularly large bulge. Mairon found it difficult to keep speculative eyes from it.

“It is not conceit, just fact. I do not believe in false modesty,” Mairon had said. He glanced back at the iron bar noting that the metal had already cooled to yellow. Annoying. “What do you want, my lord?” he said, trying to keep the edge from his voice.

“How do you know that I desire something?” Melkor said, shifting the stance of his legs wider apart.

“You have never approached me before, so I assume that you wish something of me.”

“What a saucy little Maia,” Melkor chuckled, smiling at him. “I’ve been watching you from afar and I find you most intriguing. I have a task requiring someone of particular skill. No one but you will do, I think.”

Mairon remembered the upwelling of pleasure those words had engendered, even though he knew he ought to be wary of the flattery. Instead, he merely asked, “What task, my lord?”

“I have a problem worthy of an exacting smith: how to forge a metal blade, both supremely flexible and completely unbreakable.”

“For what use do you wish to put it?”

Melkor toyed with one of his braids, threading it under and over his large fingers. “Weapons. I wish you to forge me a sword, a helmet, and hauberk.”

Mairon felt a flicker of nervousness. “There is no need of those things in Valinor. Has not Manwë forbidden them?”

“Have I come to the wrong apprentice?” Melkor asked, the plaintive gravel increasing in his voice. “I had thought you brave, perhaps even brazen. I heard about your arguments with Aulë, and I agreed with your opinion over his. It appears that I was wrong about you, though. No matter. I suppose I should ask Aulë to do it for me.”

“Why do you want weapons?” Mairon asked again, curious.

“I desire to travel in the wilds of Endórë and there are evil things there.”

“Surely none that can hurt a Vala,” Mairon said. “Or that you haven’t created yourself and therefore owe you allegiance.”

Melkor narrowed his eyes. “You have a reputation for being clever, Mairon Aulendil. Is the reputation undeserved?”

Those words drew him like a hound to spoor, and thus began the relationship that would define Mairon for the rest of his days. How was he supposed to know at the time that this simple act would forge an unholy alliance that would bind him as surely as years later the chain Angainor would bind his Master? But Mairon did not ask the important questions. Instead he threw himself into the challenge, experimenting with various metals and temperatures, and finally after thousands of trials, he developed a sword that could flex but not break and a corselet of metal rings, light to wear but impossible to pierce. With a great feeling of triumph, he helped dress Melkor in the hauberk, set the helmet on his head, and then knelt and presented the sword. Melkor swished it about in the air, then pointed it at Mairon. “Spar with me,” he said.

“I am a smith, not a swordsman,” Mairon replied.

“That must change if you are to accompany me to Endórë. I need someone worthy at my side. I have deemed you a good candidate.”

“Me, Lord Melkor?”

A corner of Melkor’s mouth quirked upward. “Come then, show me what you can do.”

Grabbing one of his earlier creations, Mairon had fought with him, back and forth across the glade until Melkor paused and nodded, weighing the sword in his hand. “It seems adequate.”

Sweaty and light-headed from the fight, Mairon leaned against a tree, “Adequate,” he declared scornfully. “You’ll find nothing better anywhere in Arda!” Melkor strode toward him, tall and menacing. He pulled off the hauberk, throwing it down in a clinking pile at Mairon’s feet and then doffed the gambeson. Bare-chested, he drew close, grasping Mairon’s chin in a gloved hand. He smelled caustic, like burning iron. With a shiver of fear, Mairon glanced down at Melkor’s tented kilt, the heat inches away.

Melkor said, “You are brilliant, Mairon and have proven your worth. Come with me to Endórë.” He leaned down, palmed the back of Mairon’s head and took his surprised mouth in a kiss that scorched Mairon’s mind and left him gasping with desire.

Was that how it had happened? Mairon frowned, tapping his temple. Or had it been like this instead?

The Vala’s lips quirked into a sneer. “Apparently you do have some skill as a smith. You could be very valuable to me if you are willing to free yourself from Aulë and become my apprentice. And I have noticed your presumptuous gaze. It causes me to wonder if you have skill in other arenas. Here, take your reward. On your knees, little Maia,” and he lifted his kilt. Almost against his will, but awed by Melkor’s power, Mairon dropped, opening his mouth like a nestling, choking as his throat was filled with thick-veined flesh. He felt Melkor’s fingers vainly trying to grasp his short hair, then settling to the back of his head, pushing and pulling it into a vicious rhythm. Some time later Melkor shoved him away and Mairon fell gasping to the ground. As he lifted glazed eyes, wiping bubbles of glutinous fluid from his lips, Melkor snarled, “Grow your hair, Maia, so next time I have a hand-hold.”

Yes, that must have been how it happened.

* * * *  
Absently, Mairon tugged on a strand of his long, silky red hair. What would Melkor think of him now? Would he be enamored of the new body? Pleased that his pupil had surpassed him? Hardly. The Vala could never stand competition. Instead, with words wielded like the crack of a whip, he would have cut Mairon down to size as he had always done. Melkor the Exacting. He for whom nothing was ever good enough. The One who held him in thrall forever, who still haunted his dreams. Melkor had never recognized Mairon’s superiority, rarely praised him, used him when and how it suited him, and kicked him when it didn’t. Mairon had become a master at hiding his true self, but somehow he had never managed to grow a hide thick enough that Melkor didn’t know how to get under it.

* * * *  
The wolf cub was the best he’d bred so far, smart as a whip, and with those huge paws, destined to be bigger than the sire. Most auspicious. Mairon liked the pattern on his head that resembled a black hood coming to a point between the cub’s eyes. He reached down and fondled the cub, which whined softly. “You want up, don’t you, you little filth?” Mairon asked affectionately. He lifted the cub by the scruff of the neck and set him on his lap. The beast roughly washed his fingers with a red tongue. Curious. Obedience through fear was a good trait in a beast, but affection? The other wolves in his breeding grounds skulked and cringed when he came nigh, but not little Baran. Once separated from his mother and allowed the run of Mairon’s chambers, the cub had boldly clamored for the privilege of climbing into bed with him, and lately Mairon had allowed it. Strange to say, he found himself actually enjoying the wolf’s company.

“I have such plans for you, little one,” Mairon crooned, as he scratched behind the cub’s ears. “You will be the father of a great race, blessed with the keenest noses and most vicious jaws. You’ll be able to snap off a Noldorin head with one bite, won’t you?”

The wolf yawned. Snuggling down into Mairon’s black robes, he promptly went to sleep, while Mairon continued to idly splay his fingers in the soft fur. Lost in his plans, he suddenly looked up, sensing a movement of air and then the Presence materialized in flames.

“Such a pleasant domestic scene,” Melkor purred. “Feckless Master and Fell Beast, snuggling up together.”

“Don’t you ever knock?” Mairon growled. The cub awoke with a snarl, backing away against Mairon’s chest.

Melkor looked around. “It’s been too long since I visited you. You’ve vastly improved this place since stealing it from the elves. A veritable Angband in miniature. Don’t you have any original ideas, Mairon?”

Plenty, you old fiend, Mairon thought. Most dealing in creative ways to roast you slowly over a fire with the spit thrust right up your arse. But he stood, shaking the pup onto the floor. “I seek only to please you. Don’t you know that imitation is the greatest flattery? What may I do for you, your Eminence?”

“It’s been a long time since you came to Angband. I worry that you don’t care for me anymore.” Melkor sniffed dramatically.

Mairon bowed. “How can you think that, my Lord? I’ve just been busy, you know, crushing a rebellion here; torturing some of your enemies there; keeping a watch on your borders; becoming a bat. What would you do without me?”

Suddenly, Melkor slammed a hand around Mairon’s throat, lifting him onto his toes. “I’ve been lax in your discipline, Maia, allowing you to become insolent.”

The wolf pup growled and then yipped frantically, half-hidden under the hem of Mairon’s robe. Mairon gasped for air as his hands flailed uselessly at Melkor’s immense, meaty arms. Slowly he lost all vision, save a whiteness filled with floating black specks.

“What did you try to say?” Melkor leaned close to Mairon’s face; his carrion breath smiting Mairon’s senses, nearly causing him to completely black out. “Mmm . . . my .. . lord . . .” he rasped. “Pl .. . .please.”

“Cease that racket, you little cur,” Melkor snarled, looking down.

Mairon heard his cub yelp and then there was a soft thud on the wall behind them. “Nnnnnuh,” Mairon choked, even as he tried to turn his head to see what had happened to the animal.

“I heard you were breeding an army in opposition to mine. I should destroy you right now.” Melkor shook Mairon like a wolf with a rat, making Mairon feel as if his head was snapping off. Melkor must really mean it this time. Mairon worked his thumbs under his Master’s hands just enough to allow his vocal chords to move. “Nuh, no, my Lord, not so. L-look into my thoughts if you don’t believe me.”

He put up the mental shields just before a searing pain flared in his skull. Lights popped and exploded and he landed on the stone floor. Every bone in his body ached. He coughed, then managed to whisper, “I would never betray you, your Eminence. Surely you know that.”

Melkor’s head cocked in a strange mechanical fashion. He examined Mairon shrewdly, “Ah, but you aren’t loyal to me, not like you used to be. I can feel you slipping away. Well, I won’t have it. Is there any truth to what I’m saying? Or do I need to flail the skin from that Lieutenant Gothig.”

“Do it! Flail him! He’ll admit he’s lying. I have always been your most loyal servant,” Mairon crawled to Melkor’s feet, kissing the tip of his iron boot, even as he reflected that Melkor must have secreted spies among his servants, who had betrayed him. Time for a cleansing. “I’ll prove it,” Mairon continued. “Ask anything of me. I’ll do whatever you command. I’ll take the lash again. Service an orc for your amusement.”

“Hunh,” Melkor rumbled from above him. Abruptly he sat down in a large chair near the crackling hearth.

Mairon sat up, with a hand to his throat, hoping it was over, knowing that it probably was not. He felt a push against his arm and was relieved to see that the wolf cub was not seriously hurt. Unconsciously, he gathered the cub into the shelter of his arms, where the beast shivered and whined softly.

“It seems fond of you,” Melkor said pleasantly.

“I’m breeding them, my Lord, an army of ravening wolves to augment your forces. See how I think of you always? This one is the best of the lot so far. Very smart.” He knew he sounded proud. He couldn’t help it. He coughed again, trying to clear his crushed vocal chords, glad to be able to divert Melkor’s attention.

“It seems craven and overly affectionate. Hardly worthy of my army,” Melkor said.

“He’s still a baby. I assure you, this one will be as vicious as its sire, Draugluin.”

“It’s defective. Kill it,” Melkor said.

Mairon looked up at him, shocked. “But my Lord . . .”

“You said you’d do anything to prove your loyalty. So prove it. Do it now before I shred your flesh from your bones.”

Mairon cradled the trusting creature in his arms and felt a surge of desperation. For a moment he considered defying his terrible Master, even though he knew that the result would be hideously painful.

Melkor rose from the chair and went to the hearth, selecting one of Mairon’s roasting spits from the rack. “I wonder how long the thing would take to die if we roasted it over the hearth,” he said.

Mairon grabbed the pup, and with one quick twist, snapped its neck, then tossed it to the floor. Carefully, he clasped his hands together to still their shaking.

“Very good, my little monster,” Melkor said. He grabbed Mairon by the front of his robe and dragged him upright, taking his mouth in a violent, crushing kiss. Then he shoved him back to the floor. “You forget how jealous I am, my love. There can be no room in your heart for anything other than me. You hear? Complete and absolute devotion, that’s what I require. Now, I summon you back to Angband. I have need of your services in plotting our next campaign.”

“Yes, my Lord Melkor,” Mairon said dully, wiping a trickle of blood from his lips.

With a loud pop, a glowing coal jumped from the fire, landed on the floor, and slowly went dark.

* * * *  
The memory filled Mairon with anger, as if pus had suddenly erupted from a wound that had long since scabbed over. Somewhere, in a distant part of himself, he thought he heard a mocking laughter that only served to increase his agitation. He rose from his cushioned hassock with a cold clinking of chains and paced back and forth by the brazier of coals. Their soft glow reminded him of the fires of Orodruin and he gripped the bare finger in his other fist, feeling again the pain of putting on the Ring for the first time. The laughter increased. “Shut up, shut up,” Mairon hissed. Was it some vestige of Melkor – still haunting him? “You can not hurt me now, you vile old bastard,” Mairon taunted. “You are gone for good. Thrust forever beyond the Door of Night where you can gnaw all you like on the ends of vainglorious plots. Whereas I, your “unworthy” servant, am still here, am I not? I, Tar-Mairon, who single-handedly toppled the proud and self-satisfied Gwaith-i-Mírdain. And I’ll do it again with the Númenóreans. You’ll see, you unholy piece of filth! The future will show which of us is superior!”

He paused, breathing heavily, then pressed hands to his heated face. “Be still,” he snarled at the mysterious voice in his head. He must not lose control like this. Never. His future balanced on the edge of a knife and if he wasn’t careful, it might well be him thrust on the wrong side of the Door, doomed forever to endure his former Master’s embrace. Where was that imbecilic King any way? He was overdue.

Then in the distance, Mairon heard the rapid, syncopated tramp of steel-shod boots coming his way. Good. Quickly, he released the guards from the spell just as six more flipped open the canvas door and rushed into the tent, bringing a cold breeze with them. Two seized Mairon by the arms, crushing him between them. Ar-Pharazôn entered, ducking his head, his eyes, bold with fury, sought Mairon.

“Take them into custody,” Ar-Pharazôn said, gesturing at the guards who had been under Mairon’s spell. “They have much to explain.”

“What? My Lord!” one guard said and they both crashed onto their knees clasping their hands in supplication. “What have we done?”

“You allowed this beast here to attack my cupbearer,” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“No, my Lord, no such thing happened,” the guard named Hozdûnik said, wildly looking about as if for confirmation.

“Take them into the yard for discipline. Fifty lashes,” Ar-Pharazôn said, jerking his chin in that direction. He turned to Mairon. “You! You have abused my hospitality.”

“Some hospitality,” Mairon rejoined, struggling against the guards holding him.

“Filth! You will bow before speaking to me!” Ar-Pharazôn roared. Little flecks of spit flew from his mouth, hitting Mairon’s face.

Mairon raised his chin defiantly. The guards immediately threw him flat onto the ground, and jerked his elbows up at an angle behind his back. “Uh!” Mairon cried, as pain shot through his shoulders.

“Good, you can feel pain, like any mere mortal. Bring me a seat,” Ar-Pharazôn said. Another guard hastened to grab the hassock Mairon had been sitting on and carried it to the King.  
“Raise him, so I can see his face.”

Mairon was lifted up and slammed onto his knees, which hurt even worse than having his arms nearly pulled from their sockets. A guard seized his hair, jerking his head back to look up at the King seated across from him, his slate-blue eyes sparking like iron striking a flint. Ar-Pharazôn looked as if he’d over-indulged in drink last night and dressed hurriedly this morning; his face was unshaven and puffy around the eyes and his short leopard-skin cloak was askew about his shoulders.

“By Manwë, you’ll learn your place,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “You’re my prisoner. It is only due to my forbearance that I haven’t lopped your head from your worthless neck.”

“I assure you, I’m more valuable to you alive and intact,” Mairon said.

“Strike him,” Ar-Pharazôn growled. Instantly, Mairon felt such a blow to his face that his head snapped to the side. His cheek hot and stinging, Mairon slowly turned his head back and narrowed his eyes at the King. He could feel emotions buzzing all around, mostly of fear, adding to the rapid pounding of his own heart.

“Believe me, you’re walking on thin ice here,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “I’ll tolerate no more insolence. The next words out of your mouth determine whether you live or die.” He gestured at a guard who drew his sword and held it level with Mairon’s neck. There was a fulsome silence.

“I can tell you about the elixir of youth,” Mairon said.

Ar-Pharazôn sat back. “Say on.”

Mairon looked pointedly at the guards. “These secrets aren’t meant for lowly ears.”

“You must think me a fool,” Ar-Pharazôn huffed, but Mairon could tell he was considering the implications.

“Not at all,” Mairon replied. “But can you trust others with such knowledge?”

“I don’t trust you, not as far as I could kick you,” Ar-Pharazôn said. He paused for a moment, then snapped his fingers at the guards. “Strip him and chain him standing with his arms over his head. There are ways to enlist his cooperation.”

“What!” Mairon cried, feigning shock. But already the guards had unlocked his wrist and leg cuffs and were roughly removing his cloak, tunic, undergarments, wool leggings, and boots. Mairon struggled against them and was rewarded by another crack across the face. He could feel one eye swelling shut. Sha! The chains binding his hands were tossed over the wooden struts that supported the roof of the tent, and pulled taut so that his body was stretched, but he could still stand flat-footed upon the frozen ground. Then, they chained his legs to either end of an iron bar, forcing him to stand splayed. He sensed the King’s gaze passing greedily over his body. Despite the cold air, sweat pricked Mairon’s face and chest. He had not remembered how vulnerable this made him feel. It had been a long time.

“Pin up his hair,” Ar-Pharazôn commanded. Mairon's long hair was roughly twisted around and then clipped in place on top of his head.

“Give me the flagellum and leave us,” the King said. “Surround the tent and don’t let anyone enter. Stay within calling distance.”

“Yes, my Lord King,” the guards said, touching fists to their shoulders before hurrying out. They seemed glad to be leaving.

“Now then,” Ar-Pharazôn said, walking around Mairon while slowly swinging the many-thonged whip back and forth, “maybe we can scourge some truth out of you.” Mairon felt the King’s breath puff hot upon his neck as he rested the handle of the whip on Mairon’s shoulder and then pulled the thongs down over his back. “I must admit you are exceedingly fair to look upon,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “I would never have anticipated this. Such perfect skin.” Mairon flinched as the King ran a hand lightly over his arse.

Mairon sent him an image of himself bent over a couch, red lines decorating his buttocks, which were parted just enough. He felt the ripple of response from the King. “Are you planning to thrash me, yourself, Pharazôn?” Mairon said. “As I’ve told you before, I’ve been worked over by the Master. Nothing you can do will compare to it.”

The King stepped back. There was a loud whoosh, then a crack as the many strands of the whip landed on Mairon’s back. He jerked, the stinging threads like the tentacles of a jellyfish. The whip landed again and again across his back, buttocks, and thighs. “Uh, Pushdug sha!” Mairon cried out after a particularly vicious hit. He had to admit, the King had a good arm.

“This is just the beginning,” Ar-Pharazôn snarled, “so that you know not to cross me in future. How dare you attempt to seduce my slave!”

Mairon moaned, jerking away, as the knotted ends of the lash tore at his skin. “Clearly, uh, that was ill-conceived.”

“I want to know why you did it,” Ar-Pharazôn panted as he continued the rain of blows. “I know you aren’t that stupid.”

“Your slave is beautiful. I was feeling lonely,” Mairon hissed. This earned him a particularly wicked smack on his inner thighs.

“Try again.”

“If you were in my place, would you not attempt some form of escape?”

“Ah, now we’re getting closer to the truth. And you thought Sûla would be able to help you?”

“So I thought, but seemingly, he is completely loyal to you.” Breathing hard, Mairon sagged against the chains. He could smell the bright musk of the King’s sweat. It was all he could do to keep himself from casting a spell on him, something particularly vicious. Control. That was the key, but dragons’ breath that hurt! His backside was on fire. Sweat ran chill under his arms. He shivered.

Ar-Pharazôn was also out of breath. Wielding a lash was tiring work, as Mairon well knew. Ar-Pharazôn came up close, speaking into Mairon’s ear. “You are my prisoner, Annatar. You live or die at my whim. Never forget that.”

“I swear I won’t,” Mairon replied as contritely as he could. He could feel something trickling down his back. Sweat? Blood?

“Now that we understand each other better,” Ar-Pharazôn said, “I want the truth.” He came around to face Mairon. “You told Sûla that you knew how to brew a drink that would make a man immortal but that you would never do it for me, as long as I held you prisoner. You had better rethink that.”

“I’m afraid your cupbearer misunderstood me. I know how to renew the body back to a semblance of youth. You can see the result by looking at the body I currently wear, but I do not yet know how to make a man immortal.”

“That is not what you told me and my Counselors in the tent. Why should I believe you now?” Ar-Pharazôn’s hand came up between Mairon’s legs, grasping his balls.

Mairon licked his lips nervously, shifting his weight to his toes to gently extricate himself from the King’s grip. “What I told you in the tent was that I knew the secret of eternal youth. That was perhaps misleading; I can make a man feel and look young, for the length of his normal life span, but only the Valar can bestow immortality.”

Ar-Pharazôn responded by squashing Mairon’s bollocks together in his big hand. Tears pricked Mairon’s eyes. He’d forgotten how fragile that area of an elf’s body was. Celebrimbor had become instantly compliant when he had been the one standing in Mairon’s place. Too bad it hadn’t been enough to get the information he’d wanted. His grudging admiration for Celebrimbor went up a notch. “Pharazôn,” Mairon gasped.

“You will address me as my Lord,” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“My Lord,” Mairon sucked a breath through his teeth.

“It’s amazing how polite a man suddenly becomes when another has hold of his stones,” Ar-Pharazôn said with a grim smile. “Tell me, what is to keep me from smacking them between two blocks of wood and turning you into a eunuch?”

“My Lord, if you would let me finish . . . As I said, I can restore a feeling of youthfulness. Allow me to brew my restorative potion when we reach Númenor. You’ll feel the effect immediately. I promise you. And your prowess, t’will be amplified four-fold. Not, of course, that you need that.”

Ar-Pharazôn grunted, considering. “You may just be attempting to poison me.”

“No doubt you can figure out a way to test the elixir before trying it yourself,” Mairon said. He felt the grip increase, squeezing out another groan.

“I swear if you are lying, I’ll rip your bollocks off with hot tongs and then stuff them down your throat,” Ar-Pharazôn said through gritted teeth.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mairon replied tightly.

“You’ll find that while I punish disobedience, I also reward those who serve me well. The carrot or the stick. Which would you like, Annatar?”

“Clearly, my ‘stones’ would prefer that I serve you well,” Mairon said, and was greatly relieved when the King chuckled and relaxed his grip.

“Do we have an understanding?” the King asked. “You will not make any more attempts to manipulate my servants or to escape. And if you please me by employing your talents in my service, you might earn certain freedoms.”

“Whatever you desire, my Lord. I am yours to command.”

“A wise decision.” Ar-Pharazôn’s hand moved upward, cupping and stroking. “I applied the whip lightly, thinking it would be a shame to permanently mar such a lovely skin.”

“For which you have my gratitude,” Mairon said, with conviction. His treacherous body was responding to the stimulation like a dog scenting a bitch in heat.

“So you like this?” Ar-Pharazôn asked. He leaned forward, his lips skating along Mairon’s neck.

“I respond to certain touches just as any man would,” Mairon replied with a shudder. His shoulders were aching, his arms felt numb from being raised above his head, and his back was alive with pain. But the King’s hand was creating quite a different sensation. The pain and pleasure were beginning to blend into a euphoric brew.

“Sûla told me that your potion has an interesting ingredient,” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“Curse him for having a loose tongue,” Mairon replied.

“Did you really think you could tell him something that wouldn’t be reported directly to me? You are a fool.”

Ha, Mairon thought, who’s the fool, falling like a fly into the web? But he replied, “As I said, I underestimated his loyalty to you. I won’t do so again.” He wished the King would just get on with whatever he wanted to do to him and then leave him alone.

“Did Sûla speak the truth? A man’s seed?”

“It is a key ingredient,” Mairon conceded.

“I should think that men would be lined up to help you with your alchemy,” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“No doubt,” Mairon sniffed. “You may find that I become very popular when you bring me to Númenor.”

At that, the King tossed his head back, laughing. “You are nothing like I would have expected.”

“I don’t know whether that is a compliment or not,” Mairon said.

“A compliment, I suppose. There is a legend that you can turn into a creature of the night. A bat or a wolf. Sûla said you told him that was no longer true. Is he right?”

Mairon managed a laugh. “If I could still do that, don’t you think I would have by now?”

Ar-Pharazôn’s lips quirked into a smile. “I suppose so.” He brought his hand up and splayed it on Mairon’s belly. “I can’t imagine you as one of those foul creatures. You are too beautiful . . . and quite tempting.” The hand moved to Mairon’s chest over his heart and then pinched a nipple.

Mairon hung his head as if defeated. “What do you want with me, my Lord?”

The King moved behind him. There was a long moment of silence in which Mairon braced himself. He could feel the lust flowing from the King, could feel impending violence. “Ar-Pharazôn?” He attempted to twist his head around to see what the King was doing. “Please, please,” he whimpered. Let the King think what he liked about whether Mairon was pleading for him to do it, or not to.

There was a thud and soft hiss as the whip dropped to the floor, then a tell-tale shifting of clothing. One of the King’s broad hands skated down Mairon's back, becoming slick with moisture. A quick, squelching sound, then the King pressed one hand hard against Mairon’s flank and Mairon was pierced so forcefully that he was shoved up onto his toes. A shock of violation shuddered throughout his being and Mairon cried out in pain.

“Come back here,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted, pulling him down with a hand on both hips. “Oh yes, that is glorious. You’re tight as a virgin.”

Mairon had a moment to contemplate whether or not his body was in fact virginal. Its former owner had taken a lover, but that had been a long time ago. By Melkor, it hurt bad enough to be the first time. He pulled against the chains, gritting his teeth, as the King worked himself against his backside. Yes, indeed, if it took a thousand years, he’d get his revenge for this – he’d take it out on the hides of every last one of the curséd Tarks. And yet, and yet . . . he could feel himself feeding on the King’s pleasure, swelling into a throbbing lust of his own that drew from the pain, and made it worse. He saw Melkor standing before him, huge body sculpted in the firelight, sweat gleaming from his muscles as he raised the whip. Mairon screamed, closing his eyes, and for a time he drifted, riding the currents of fire deep within Orodruin.

When he came back to himself, the King was still thrashing and grunting against him. Mairon rolled his eyes. He could feel the King wide open to suggestion, as he ascended into the realm of sexual ecstasy. Time to gain control. Subtly, Mairon began feeding the sensations back to Ar-Pharazôn, so that his pleasure doubled with each new thrust.

“By Ossë, that’s good,” Ar-Pharazôn gasped. “Oh gods in Aman . . . finally, yes, finally!”

Mairon’s lips curled in triumph as the King roared out his climax, shaking and shuddering, and squeezing his arms like iron bands about his chest. He sent an emissary deep into the King’s thoughts to lie there hidden. Ar-Pharazôn swayed forward, his weight pulling on Mairon’s raised arms. “Sha! Are you quite finished?” Mairon snapped.

There was a thump as Ar-Pharazôn fell backwards and lay gasping on the ground. Looking over his shoulder, Mairon saw him, his cock still at half-mast, protruding from his breeches and covered in blood. Matter dripped stickily down the inside of Mairon’s thigh. He couldn’t wipe it off. Disgusting.

Ar-Pharazôn groaned. He struggled upwards and ran a finger along Mairon’s thigh, smearing the fluid into the skin.

There came a nervous voice calling from outside the doorflap. “My Lord, are you well?”

Ar-Pharazôn laughed. “Yes, yes,” he called. “Stay where you are.” Staggering to his feet, he tucked himself back into his breeches. Then he licked alongside Mairon’s neck while at the same time squeezing a handful of his rear. “That was most rare,” he said, his breath hot against Mairon’s ear. “Tell me, why did it feel so good?”

“You’ve never had a Maia before, I take it,” Mairon said. “We are gifted. Now, if you’ve had your fill, Ar-Pharazôn, I beg you, unchain me. I’m in great pain.”

“As well you should be,” Ar-Pharazôn swatted his arse. “Just remember what happened this night, Annatar, and be a good little mîki from now on so we won’t have to repeat the performance.”

“You’ll want to, my Lord,” Mairon said huskily. “Once you’ve had a taste, you’ll want more.” And he tossed out an image of the King as a supplicant on his knees, his mouth just beginning to open.

 

**************

Baran (golden brown in Sindarin)  
Endórë (Quenya) - Middle-earth  
Pushdug - dungfilth in Black Speech (but probably a debased form)  
Sha! - an expression of contempt in Black Speech (again probably an orcish version.)  
mîki - an elfscribe-invented word. Mîk - means baby boy in Adûnaic. Mîki is a slang word that has a slightly jeering meaning, like saying “pal” or “boyo.” 

I know there are some words in Sindarin like Angband or Draugluin that should probably be in Quenya for consistency, but I left them in the form more familiar to readers. As the scribe of this story, that's my translation prerogative. *g*


	10. Of Golden Curls and Vinegar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sûla brings a healer to the Zigûr’s tent with an unexpected result.

Dawn illuminated the eastern side of the tent, making the fabric glow golden as Sûla turned restlessly in the King’s big iron bed. On his other side, the coals in the brazier pulsed dark red, looking strangely sinister. For most of the night, Sûla had been sleeping deeply, luxuriating in the King’s absence, but now, as he thought over events, he became uneasy. He hadn’t reckoned on how angry his story would make the King, who had been gone for hours now. It was becoming a source of worry. Was Ar-Pharazôn torturing the Zigûr, and if so, might the sorcerer reveal their deception? That thought made him sit up. Perhaps it would be best to put his ear to the vast network of whispered information and find out what was happening. If his worst fears were confirmed, maybe he could get a horse and slip away before he was caught and horribly executed. Rising, Sûla hastened into his clothes, walked through the large antechamber, unfastened the loops holding down the doorflap, and stuck his head out, squinting in the sudden brightness. It was chilly. An armed guard stood there, shifting from foot to foot.  
  
“Hail Bildûn, where is the King?” Sûla asked.  
  
“Still in the Zigûr’s tent.”  
  
“What news?”  
  
“The Zigûr’s guards were punished, fifty lashes, and they say the King himself meted out the same to the Zigûr.”  
  
“Why were the guards punished?”  
  
“Failure to perform their duty. Haven’t heard it all, but they say it had to do with _you._ ” Here Bildûn regarded him down the length of his hooked nose.  
  
“I should see if the King needs me,” Sûla said.  
  
“Doubtful. I’m sure he can manage to wield a lash on his own.” Bildûn laughed. “Ah, here he comes.” He straightened up and saluted the King, ignoring Sûla, who retreated into the tent, looking around for a place to hide. But it was too late. He heard the King’s voice, addressing the guard, then he entered. By Zizzûn, the front of his tunic was marred with streaks of blood! What had he done?  
  
“Ha! There you are!” Ar-Pharazôn cried, striding towards him.  
  
“My Lord.” Sûla hunched his shoulders, braced for a blow. But the King caught him by the upper arms, and with a chuckle, hoisted him into the air.  
  
“I am most pleased with you,” Ar-Pharazôn said, setting him back down. “You may pick out a piece of jewelry from the treasury.”  
  
“What? Yes?” Astonished, Sûla raised his eyes to the King’s. “What happened, my Lord?”  
  
“Annatar confirmed your story. I do not think you need worry about him for now. He has been well chastened. Still, be wary around him. Only speak to him when spoken to and volunteer nothing. Do you hear me?”  
  
“I obey in all things, my Lord.” Sûla inclined his head, breathing easily again.  
  
“The army is resting here for the day. It’s been a long night.”  
  
“Do you wish a change, my Lord?” Sûla waved a hand at the King, who looked down at his garments and frowned.  
  
“Oh, uh, yes. And prepare a basin of hot water. I need to wash.”  
  
Sûla hastened ahead of the King into the inner chamber where he poured water from an ewer into a brass pan and set it on the tripod over the coals in the brazier. As he helped the King disrobe, Sûla inhaled the distinctive and familiar scent of sex. But when he removed the King’s breeches, he saw that his groin was stained a red-brown color. Blood? What had he done? Was it a tryst with some other slave? Or could it have been with the Zigûr? Sûla’s stomach clenched. Was the King developing a taste for violent couplings? He couldn’t imagine that the sorcerer would take such an insult without some consequence. His head buzzing, Sûla carefully sponged the King clean, applied perfumed oil, and dressed him in a new robe.  
  
“I am weary and wish to lie down a while,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “Go wake Tigôn and tell him to spread the news among my lieutenants that the encampment will not break for today. Hurry.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla said.  
  
“Oh, and find a healer to take care of the Zigûr’s wounds. We can’t have them festering.”  
  
His wounds? Sûla looked up again, startled. “Without fail, my Lord, rest well.”  
  
He started to pull away but the King caught his arm and pulled him up close. “Come back around noon,” he said, and took Sûla’s mouth in a greedy kiss. There was no mistaking what he wanted. Sûla kissed him back, just ardently enough to show his devotion, but not so much that noon might come sooner than planned.  
  
As he escaped into the bright sunlight, he could feel his spirits lifting. Things were working out quite well after all. He threaded his way along the snowy, muddy paths between the tents thinking about which piece of jewelry he might select. The necklace of red coral or maybe the arm cuff in the form of a dragon with glittering ruby eyes? Yes, that one.  
  
He found Tigôn’s little tent on a hillock, its side painted with the King’s crest and a messenger’s wings. It overlooked a network of rivers glinting in the distance like a spider’s bedewed web.  
  
Sûla called, “Tigôn, are you up?” There was no sound. “Tigôn?” He lifted the flap and peered into the dark interior, making out a fur-covered lump on the cot. Quietly, he approached and leaned over the still form, pulling a corner of the fur away from the boy’s face. His eyes were nearly covered by the mass of blond curls, his lips parted slightly, moist and rosy pink. Quite kissable, Sûla thought, remembering the unsatisfying peck he’d stolen the night before. The boy looked so fresh and innocent that Sûla was filled with a sudden longing. He reached out, softly stroking those enticing curls away from Tigôn’s forehead.  
  
Tigôn suddenly hissed, grabbed Sûla’s arm, and jerked himself upright. The furs fell back, revealing his slim, bare chest, collarbones flared like wings. “What? Who? Oh, it’s you.” Disgusted, Tigôn fell back into the furs. “Sûla! You scared the crap right out of me. What are you doing here?”  
  
“Sorry.” Sûla straightened up and stepped back a pace, his heart beating quickly. “The King sent me to wake you. Said you should go tell all his lieutenants that the army isn’t moving today. Better hurry, I hear them already starting to break camp.”  
  
“Oh shite,” Tigôn said. Sitting up again, he scrubbed a hand over his eyes and then upwards through his hair making it bush up wildly. “I had hardly any sleep. Strange dreams.” He looked up at Sûla, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, very strange.”  
  
“Tell me later,” Sûla said, retreating. He had a sudden thought. “Perhaps this evening. Come to the tent, later, after the King’s asleep.” He smiled his most charming smile. “I’ll give you an opportunity to win back your buttons.” He gestured down at his flies.  
  
“Ha!” Tigôn said. He looked bemused for a moment, his eyes unfocussed. “Well, maybe, if I’m free,” he said. “Now, get out of here so I can dress.”  
  
“Sure you don’t want me to stay?” Sûla asked slyly. “I am, after all, a body slave, and skilled in dressing . . . and undressing my masters.”  
  
“Get out!” Tigôn scooped up a boot and threw it him, as Sûla ducked out the door, laughing.  
  
Whistling a tune, Sûla went back down the hill, sliding along on his heels through the packed snow. Yes, indeed, it was turning into a good day. And now he needed to summon a healer to check on the Zigûr. He headed for the area where they usually were encamped.  
  
* * * *  
A woman crouched outside a tent near a fire, red-faced with the heat, stirring a black cauldron. Her face was plain with a severe mouth and upturned nose, her eyes as dark blue as a tarn. A strand of light brown hair escaped her cap. The steam issuing from the pot smelled pleasantly pungent. Despite the chill, her sleeves were rolled up. Smears of blood marred her apron.  
  
“Good morn, banâth,” Sûla hailed her. “Do you know the whereabouts of the King’s surgeon, Yanak?”  
  
“Aye, as well I ought.  He’s my husband. Good for nothing lout that he is, he’s still abed.” She left off stirring and stood, setting her hands on her hips. “What brings you abroad so early and why in’t the army breaking camp?”  
  
“The King commanded a day of rest,” Sûla said.  
  
“Did he now? I suppose he should after his work last night,” the woman said.  
  
“What do you know of it?”  
  
“What do I know? I’ve been tending to backs flailed raw. One man’s near dead,” she said with a snort. “Who are you?”  
  
“The King’s cupbearer,” Sûla said with a short bow.  
  
“Oh aye, I’ve heard of you.” She opened her mouth as if to say more and then shut it firmly and after giving him a baleful glance, bent back down to stir the cauldron. “What do you want then?”  
  
“The King has summoned Yanak to tend to the Zigûr.”  
  
“What’s wrong with ‘im?”  
  
“He was punished with a whip and the King doesn’t want the wounds to fester.”  
  
“By the bones, there’s another one.” The woman sighed. Sûla could see that she was younger than she’d first appeared. “Yanak is indisposed,” she said, “but we can hardly refuse the King for all that, can we? I’ll see to it. Give me leave a moment, I need to give ‘em this first.” With an iron dipper, she scooped up a quantity of reddish colored brew, sniffed at it, then poured it into two mugs. “Willow bark,” she said. “For pain and fever.” She tilted her head towards the tent. “Come along wi’ me.”  
  
Sûla followed her into the dimly lit tent that smelled of sweat and wine-breath. Two men were lying face forward on the cots, bandages wound around their torsos. Sûla recognized the Zigûr’s guards and had a flash of guilt. But then, he thought, how was he to know the King would order them flogged? Another figure lay off in the shadows, snoring like an orc.  
  
The woman opened up a ceramic jar, dropped a dollop of honey into each mug, and knelt by one of the bandaged guards. “Here, sip this. Slowly, it’s hot.”  
  
“My thanks, Zôri.” The man lifted his head and saw Sûla standing by the door. “Ai! What’s he doing here?” He raised his hand as if warding him off, thumb tucked across the palm in the sign against evil.  
  
“Eh what?” The woman looked over at Sûla. “He’s here to get my help, seems the Zigûr suffered the same fate as you.”  
  
The guard took the tea in a hand that shook. “He’s bad luck. Tell him to leave,” he said.  
  
Sûla recognized him as Hozdûnik, the craggy-faced man who had taunted him several times, hinting that he wanted his favors. Raising his chin, Sûla said, “The Zigûr tried to attack me, me, the King’s own body servant, and you and your nadzûn over there slept through it all. You deserve what you got.” Then he turned his back and left the tent to wait impatiently outside.  
  
The snoring inside stuttered, rattled, and then ceased. He heard a man’s voice say sleepily, “Here, who was that?”  
  
“The King’s business,” the woman said sharply. “Now roust yourself up, ya drunken brute and take care of these men while I’m gone.”  
  
“Ai my head!” the man said. “Hold your tongue, woman. The sound of your voice is busting my brains.”  
  
“Nay,” she said, sweetly, “my voice is a delight. It mun be the copious amount of wine ya drank last night while I was tending to men’s backsides. Now get up!” There came a loud clatter as of metal banging together, a thump on the ground, and a yelp.  
  
“There, that’ll set your head to rights,” the woman said. “Now, if you can manage to crawl your worthless hide outside, there’s a willow tea brewing for the headache. I’ll be back . . . maybe.”  
  
Sûla had to hide a smile behind his hand as the tent flap snapped aside and the woman emerged with a satchel over one arm. The other arm was crooked around a wooden cask and she carried a large, resin-coated basket.  
  
“Men,” she said jerking her head in the direction of the tent. “If they’re not swilling, they’re whoring or fighting. Very well then, take me to the Black One. Here, you can carry this.” And she thrust the basket at him.”  
  
They marched silently back up the hill leading to the Zigûr’s tent, passing men in a confused state of half-packed, half-unpacked as they unloaded wains, tamped the tent lines back down and stoked the cooking fires. There seemed to be a goodly amount of cheer. Small groups of men were taking the opportunity to relax, sitting on little cross-legged stools around the fires, smoking pipes and talking. Sûla heard roars of laughter here and there.  
  
Then suddenly the woman said, “Why do you think he surrendered, the Zigûr?”  
  
Sûla shrugged. “He said the King’s forces outnumbered his.”  
  
“And you believed that?” Her face was intent upon his, brow furrowed slightly.  
  
“Not my place to question,” Sûla returned.  
  
“Do you know what he’s done, what he’s capable of?”  
  
“I’ve heard tales. I begin to wonder about them, having met him. He seems, well, reasonable.”  
  
“Reasonable!” she snorted. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen . . .” she broke off. They walked further and then she rounded on him. “I have the sight. I’ve felt him, ever since he arrived. I knew sooner or later, he’d call for me.” Her voice seemed calm but there was something eager in her eyes that didn’t seem to fit.  
  
Sûla stopped dead. “The sight?” he said. “Like a weirding woman?”  
  
“Aye, but different. I don’t curse folks; I’m a healer.”  
  
Sûla snorted. “If you can sense him, then lead the way to his tent.”  
  
“Very well.” She closed her eyes and extended her hands, fingers twitching. Then she pointed, saying confidently, “this way,” and led him, with a couple of detours and false steps to the door of the Zigûr’s tent.  
  
“That proves nothing, you could have found out earlier where he was encamped.” Sûla folded his arms.  
  
“Ah, a sharp one, you are!” She tapped his nose with her finger, which he resented, thinking it was much too familiar for their differing stations.  
  
“Sighted, are you?” Sûla mocked.  
  
She reached her hand to the tent flap and then snatched it back. “By the bones,” she said. “I can feel him. Oh, this is monstrous, this is. Like carrion crows circling above.” Her voice caught. She took a step backwards and then another. Sûla looked at her closely. Was she play acting again or did she mean it?  
  
“The King commands you to give him succor,” Sûla said.  
  
Her face had become pale as a bowl of porridge. “Who are you, little cub, to be ordering me about?”  
  
Sûla drew himself up to his full height to let her know just what his position was, but her gaze was focused somewhere far distant. Then, her expression hardened and she patted the satchel. “You go first,” she said, “since seemingly you have nothing to fear from ‘im.”  
  
Sûla entered the tent lit by a hanging lantern. He beheld the Zigûr, naked, lying on his belly upon the cot in the same position of tense pain as the men in the surgeon’s tent. But here the smell was not the same one of bloody wounds and unwashed bodies. Instead, it smelled a bit like scorched linen. There was something, some kind of current that Sûla could feel in the room, as if standing in the surf feeling the undertow. The Zigûr’s head rested on his arms, his eyes closed. Long, sooty black lashes. As Sûla approached, he could see that his back was crisscrossed with lash marks. Some bruising was appearing here and there, but still, it didn’t look nearly as bad as many he’d seen. The King had been easy on him.  
  
Without opening his eyes, the Zigûr said softly, “Ah Sûla. Come to salve me, have you? Who else is there?”  
  
“A healer, my Lord Annatar.”  
  
The eyes opened, revealing their golden cat-like shape. The woman let out a little gasp.  
  
The Zigûr closed them again wearily. “No need to fear me, woman, I’m quite indisposed at the moment.”  
  
But she dropped the wicker basket and stood stiffly, her lips working. “I willna touch ‘im,” she said. “I don’t care if the King lays me back open either.”  
  
“What’s wrong with you?” Sûla asked. “I’ve touched him and taken no hurt from it. I assure you, he’s not the monster tales make him. See?” He approached the cot, noting the weals, some raised and white and some red with thin scabbed lines. Even with lash marks marring his smooth skin, Sûla could see that the body was well-formed, the unwounded skin quite fair. He laid a hand on Annatar’s strong calf and saw the rusty looking streaks along the inside of his legs. Oh so that’s what had happened. He felt a pang of empathy. Perhaps it would be best if he tended the Zigûr’s wounds.  
  
“Tell me what to do,” Sûla said.  
  
“Here.” She held out the cask she carried. You soak the linen in vinegar and put them on his back. Then you just bandage him round to hold them in place. I expect even the King’s ‘cupbearer’ could figure it out.”  
  
Annatar opened his eyes again, regarding her steadily. “Not so unnerved by me that you can’t make sharp remarks,” he said. “What’s your name?”  
  
She fidgeted, as if deciding whether or not to answer.“Zôri,” she said, finally.  
  
“Ah well then, Zôri, are you a healer or not? My backside is distressing me greatly.”  
  
Her mouth worked as if making up her mind about something. Casting Sûla a look that reminded him of a horse spooked by a shadow, she shrugged the satchel off her shoulder and opened it, pulling out a wad of linen strips and putting them in the pitch-blackened basket. Then she uncorked the cask and a sharp scent of vinegar arose as she poured it out. “This will sting when first applied,” she said to Sûla. “That is, if he feels pain like others do.”  
  
“You’ll find I yell with the best of them,” the Zigûr said, a smile creeping onto his face. More and more, in the face of that charm, Sûla was finding the tales he’d been told as a child hard to believe.  
  
Zôri knelt, pushing the bandages down in the vinegar and sloshing them around. Her eyes had barely left the Zigûr. “They said you were black of skin and hairy as a wolf with sharp fangs and a long red tongue.”  
  
Annatar stuck out his quite normal-looking tongue, grabbed it between thumb and forefinger and waggled it back and forth. “Today must be one of my better days.”  
  
Sûla snorted. The Zigûr tried to raise himself on an elbow and sank back with a moan. “Your King has a good arm,” he said. “I’ll think twice before crossing him again.”  
  
“The King himself did this?” Zôri asked. She shook her head and handed a dripping bandage to Sûla. “Clean out the cuts with this.”  
  
Sûla pulled the hassock close to the cot so that he could sit, then set about sponging down the Zigûr’s back. Annatar flinched and grunted as the vinegar seared his wounds. His skin felt very hot under Sûla’s fingers.  
  
“What did you do to set the King off?” Zôri persisted.  
  
“Best that you not know,” the Zigûr said, raising his head and giving her a penetrating look.  
  
She blanched and dropped her eyes. The Zigûr hissed again as Sûla, suddenly finding the whole thing rather erotic, carefully swabbed along the high curve of his arse and into the cleft.  
  
“You’ll have to raise up so we can wrap bandages around your chest,” Zôri said, bringing out more long strips and a knife to cut them. With a soft moan, the Zigûr levered his body up on his hands, so that Sûla could wrap the bandages around him. He wound it round and round, bringing the tails to the side to tie off while Zôri stood next to him, holding the knife ready to cut the excess.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Sûla caught a motion. The Zigûr jerked away and scream-growled just like a hunting cat. “Watch out!” he cried, causing Sûla to jump nearly out of his skin. He looked up as Zôri held the knife aloft, high enough for a striking blow. Without even thinking, he grabbed her arm just as she brought it swiftly down over Annatar’s neck. They strained for a moment.  
  
“Zôri, _burzum-ishi krimpatul!_ ” Annatar hissed the words he’d taught Sûla and the woman froze with the knife point just snicking Annatar’s neck. A line of blood trickled down onto the cot. Sûla felt the spell’s stir of air around them; the lantern hanging from the ceiling rocked back and forth. There was a roaring in his ears. For a moment he sat shocked.  
  
Annatar eased out from under the knife point and sat up, face white and furious. “Move the bitch away,” he said to Sûla, with a voice low and calm but trembling with suppressed anger. Sûla hastened up, and pulled her two steps back. The woman came as if sleep-walking.  
  
“Who sent you?” Annatar snapped at her.  
  
“No one,” she murmured, dropping her hands to her sides. The knife fell with a thump and a slight bounce to the ground and Sûla bent to fetch it. Zôri was staring straight ahead, as controlled as the guards had been earlier. A little shiver moved up Sûla’s spine. What were the Zigûr’s powers, really? Were they foolish to be trying to keep him prisoner?  
  
“I’ll ask again,” the Zigûr said, his eyes flashing and his voice a low menacing rumble, “Did anyone send you?”  
  
“Nay.”  
  
“Why did you try to kill me? It’s against the healer’s code,” Annatar said.  
  
“Blood oath,” she said.  
  
“Whose?”  
  
“Mine,” she said in a dull voice. “Five years ago you wiped out a village on the coast, nigh to Edhellond. My whole family killed.”  
  
There was a poignant silence. The Zigûr’s hands worked, clenching, unclenching.  
  
“What shall we do?” Sûla said. “If we just let her go, she’s like to try again. I could report it to the King, and no doubt he’d banish her.”  
  
The Zigûr shook his head and a lock of his flame-colored hair came loose from the pins and landed upon his neck. “No, we don’t want you to get the reputation of a tale bearer.” He rose naked from the cot, bandages wrapped about his chest, and approached the woman, who stood woodenly, her gaze directed at nothing. If Sûla hadn’t seen the spell at work for himself, he’d have thought that she had suddenly gone daft. Annatar leaned down, whispering into her ear for what seemed a long time. Then he stood back as she became unstuck and her eyes flicked from him to Sûla. She turned and, without a word, left the tent.  
  
Mouth agape, Sûla stared at the Zigûr, standing tall and graceful in his nakedness. He seemed remarkably composed for someone who’d just had an attempt made on his life. “What did you say to her, my Lord?”  
  
Annatar made a gesture like flicking off a fly. He came back and lay down on the cot. “Finish the bandaging,” he said.  
  
“Are you not afraid she might try again?”  
  
“She will not,” the Zigûr replied, settling further with a slight moan.  
  
“But . . .”  
  
“Sûla, do you not know better than to question your masters?” the Zigûr said sharply. And every hair on Sûla’s body seemed to stand up in a prickling rush.  
  
“My Lord.” He bowed, heart hammering.  
  
“Come. Sit,” Annatar said, his voice honeyed again. He patted the hassock drawn up close to the cot.  
  
Sûla wasn’t even aware of having made a decision to come back and continue winding the bandage. He simply discovered himself doing so. Annatar raised his hips up, allowing Sûla to pass it around his loins. The touch of the Zigûr’s skin was most pleasing. “There, finished, my Lord. Does it feel easier now?” He drew a blanket over the Zigûr’s back.  
  
“Yessss.” Annatar reached out and stroked Sûla’s head, pushing the hair behind his ears, almost as if he were a dog. “I am most pleased with you,” he said. “You acted quickly and showed loyalty and courage in stopping that attack.”  
  
Sûla felt an absurd glow of pleasure. “Thank you, my Lord. I try to serve well.”  
  
“The King has good taste in his . . . servants,” the Zigûr said. “Come, give me a kiss.”  
  
Sûla leaned forward, his lips brushing Annatar’s. So soft, so warm.  
  
“You excite me,” Annatar said, golden eyes glowing. “But, we must be very careful not to do anything that will jeopardize your position with the King.” He patted Sûla’s cheek, then pulled away, closing his eyes again. “Now then, bring me water and some food. I’d like some cheese if you’ve got it. Then, I need to sleep.”  
  
A strange double sensation of both disappointment and relief washed over Sûla, as if he’d escaped some pleasurable doom. But something was nattering at him. “My Lord,” he began.  
  
“Speak.”  
  
“If you are so powerful that you can stop an assassin, why did you allow the King to whip you?”  
  
A crafty expression flitted across Annatar’s face, but he said, “The guard held a sword at my throat. Under the circumstances, what would you choose to do?”  
  
“I suppose, given the choice of a whipping or having my throat cut, I’d allow the lash.”  
  
“You understand now,” Annatar said, tiredly.  
  
“So the King does not know . . .” Sûla faltered.  
  
“That you kept the truth from him. No, he does not.” The Zigûr reached out, strong fingers gripped Sûla’s arm. “Nor will he, if you keep your mouth shut. This is important, Sûla; our lives depend on you keeping faith.”  
  
Sûla nodded. “I’ll get your food and drink, then.”  
  
Annatar relaxed his grasp and smiled charmingly at Sûla. “Good boy,” he said. But the smile did not warm his eyes.  
  
* * * *  
banâth - Adûnaic meaning wife.  I’m using it as a generic term for a woman, sort of like saying, “goodwife.”  
Bildûn - one of the King’s guards.  Invented Adûnaic.               
Zôri - a name meaning nurse in Adûnaic. Technically it should be spelled Zôrî, but since it’s a name, I’m taking a liberty because I can only handle so many friggin’ accents.  
nadzûn - elfscribe invented Adûnaic word meaning a worthless buddy.  
burzum-ishi krimpatul - in the darkness bind them. Black speech, recognizable as part of the inscription on the Ring.    
  



	11. Of Mud and Machinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amandil learns some troubling things about Sauron and Ar-Pharazôn sends Tigôn on a terrifying mission.

Amandil sat in his tent drinking a cup of tea and sloshing his aching feet in a basin of hot water. By Ossë, he wasn’t as young as he used to be and the work of moving his company was taking the tar right out of him, not to mention wrecking havoc upon his arches. By evening tomorrow the King’s immense army would have filed through Arzog’s Pass, which was the last remnant of the high plain that dropped down from the Ephel Dúath. And the day following, Amandil hoped to see the white tiered walls and glittering coastline of Umbar. It would take maybe twelve days to secure provisions and load the ships, and then, weather permitting, a little over two fortnights later, they’d be home.    
  
He was well ready to be quit of this place and more than ready to see the fair shores of home.  His true home, he reflected, not the manse in Rómenna, but the one in Andúnië, where he grew up. He missed his friends, his library, his grandsons, the fair shores where he could walk in peace.  He had a sudden memory of sitting on a dune watching the waves, feeling the sea breeze in his hair. Above the shushing surf, he heard again the laughter of his gentle Silmariën chasing their son, and his heart ached. Sighing, he rubbed the entwined serpents on his ring, their heads smooth from his ancestors doing the same thing.  It was said that time healed all griefs but he’d found the platitude to be false.  He still missed his wife, even after all these years.  He thought of Silmariën’s warm smile that lit up her eyes, her dark hair that had begun to grey, and her lovely voice lifted in song. He wondered again, as he often did, if there was indeed a place where he would meet her, once his life was over.  The elves had the Halls of Mandos.  Why was it a mystery what happened to Men?      
  
Gently, Amandil swirled his feet.  
  
It had been six days since they’d captured Annatar, or perhaps more to the point, since the sorcerer had surrendered. The return trip had been hard going. They’d left the snow behind, but it was still rainy and muddy. Yesterday one of their wains became buried in muck and they’d broken an axle in the process of dragging it out. With no time to repair it, they had to shift all their goods to another wain and leave the broken one behind, causing an uncharacteristic argument amongst Amandil’s normally staunch followers. He’d been forced to promise Luncatur, one of his vassals, that he’d purchase a new wain for him upon their return to Rómenna. In addition, there had been supply issues, particularly in finding fuel on the barren plains northeast of Umbar, and more than once he’d had to interfere when warriors from other houses had besieged a local hamlet to help themselves to wood, stray chickens, or daughters. An army moving across the landscape in many ways resembled locusts chewing through a wheat field. Curse Izindor and his oafish sons!  
  
Then there were the troubling rumors about the King’s growing relationship with Annatar. Elendil’s young friend Tigôn had turned out to be a promising intelligencer. He’d struck up a useful friendship with the King’s zirâmîki, Sûla, who seemed to be in the thick of matters. From Sûla, Tigôn had heard tidbits of information that he’d passed along. It wasn't much. Sûla seemed rather reticent and Tigôn’s comments involved impressions as much as actual facts. But Sûla had told Tigôn about the rape.  
  
Amandil combed fingers through his beard, thinking. As dissipated and power-hungry as he knew his old friend Calion had become in recent years, beating and raping Annatar seemed out of character, as well as foolish. He couldn’t imagine that Annatar would allow such a thing. Did that mean the Zigûr really had lost his powers? Or were they all in for an ugly surprise one day soon? He felt he needed to do something to protect his people, but what exactly, he had no idea. The whole thing was eating at him, causing sleepless nights, and when he did sleep, he dreamed of ravens. He was not especially prone to superstition, but it was enough to give him the shivers.  
  
Speaking of which . . . Nits! The water was growing cold. He raised one dripping foot. Where was Bansil? He’d sent him after more wood for the brazier quite some time ago.  
  
The tent door opened and Elendil entered, wrapped in his dark green cloak. “Ada, a man is here, asking to speak to you. I believe he’s one of the King’s surgeons.”  
  
Amandil sighed. “What does he want?”  
  
“He says his wife is acting strangely.” Elendil gave him an apologetic half-smile.  
  
“His wife? Why in thunder is that my concern?”  
  
“He thinks the Zigûr put a spell on her. Because of the delicacy of the political situation, he feels you are the one to talk to. I must say, I rather agree.”  
  
Something cold shivered up Amandil’s spine. “Very well.”  
  
Elendil went to the door and beckoned the man in. “I think I’d better keep a watch outside,” he remarked to Amandil. “To make sure no one falls over our tent ropes.” He winked.  
  
“Good idea,” Amandil said. Ah, he recognized the man who entered. He wore the headcloth of the surgeon’s trade with the red circle on the forehead and a droopy mustache. His eyebrows rose at a sharp angle nearly meeting between his eyes, giving him a befuddled expression and he exuded a sour wine smell. All in all, his appearance was not adding to his credibility. Amandil wondered how he had obtained his lofty position as one of the King’s staff. “Good evening, Yanak,” Amandil greeted him.  
  
“Thank you for seeing me, Councilor Aphanuzîr, Lord of Andúnië. I have a matter of import to discuss with you.”  
  
“Sit then. Do you wish some mint tea?” It could only help dissipate the man’s air.  
  
“Aye, please,” Yanak said, drawing up a stool to their brazier of coals while Amandil poured out tea from his pot.  
  
“What can I do for you, Yanak? Is the King not in good health?”  
  
“He’s in good enough condition near as I can tell. He hasn’t required my services for a spell,” Yanak said putting on his professional expression. “It’s not that.” He took a breath. “It’s since she came back from the Zigûr’s tent. Remember five days ago when we halted for a day of rest? I was very ill that night when the guards came in with their backs flailed, so I couldn’t answer the summons in the morning when the Umbarian zirâmîki came, and she had to go with him . . .”  
  
“Halt a moment.” Amandil raised a hand. “By she, I presume you mean your wife?”  
  
“Aye,” Yanak blinked at him owl-eyed for a moment, then continued. “I noticed right off something wasn’t right with her.”  
  
“When she left or when she came back?”  
  
“Oh aye, when she came back.”  
  
“What did you notice?”  
  
“Well, she was quiet, for one. Most uncharacteristic, which you’d know if you’d met her. At first I thought she was just mad at me, but that was strange too because Manwë knows usually she rails about rather than keeping quiet. But as the day wore on and she didn’t say a thing, I began to worry. And she was pullin’ on her ear funny, like a dog trying to get rid of a tick.” Yanak paused to demonstrate. “I told her to sit down so I could see what was wrong with it and that’s when I noticed the second thing amiss.”  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“Right off, she did what I told her!” Yanak’s eyes opened wide with the enormity of this revelation, and Amandil covered his smile by taking a sip of tea.  
  
“I could find nothing wrong with her ear and she didn’t complain of any pain. Then, later she began speaking but only when spoken to and it was in this voice, this dead voice. Uh, see?”  
  
“Maybe she wasn’t feeling well,” Amandil suggested.  
  
“So I thought, but as I said, I couldn’t find anything wrong. I bled her, just to make sure, and she accepted it meek as a lamb. Now that right there.” He waved a finger at Amandil, “that told me things were not well with her, because she and I quite differ on the efficacious nature of bleeding. And then I began to think that something happened when she went to heal the Zigûr.”  
  
“She went to heal him?”  
  
“Aye,” Yanak looked around and then lowered his voice. “The King beat him bloody or didn’t you know?”  
  
“The whole battalion knows,” Amandil said. “I daresay the King had good reason.”  
  
Generally, the men seemed to approve of the King’s treatment of Annatar. Amandil had heard admiring talk among the other councilors and some of the guards. Izindor writhed himself into a knot in his haste to congratulate the King over it. Why was it that these days so many of his countrymen seemed to see brutality as a sign of strength? A sentiment more appropriate to the wild men of Ennor. Apparently, only a handful, including himself, Elendil, Sûla and Tigôn knew about the rape, although Amandil doubted that anyone would hold it against the King, whose penchants were well-known and Annatar was, after all, a prisoner. But Tigôn had reported that the King was spending several hours every evening in Annatar’s tent. What possible reason could Calion have for doing that? He did not even want to know, except that it may be threatening the security of Númenor.  
  
Amandil reached for a cloth to dry his feet. “Forgive me, Yanak, but we must tend our aches and pains at our age, mustn’t we?”  
  
“Indeed, I know all about them,” Yanak commiserated as he shifted on the hassock “A hot bath is just the right thing for feet.” He took a gulp of the tea. “As far as Zôri goes, she might have been overly quiet but she went about her work, cooking and fetching water and so on, so I have to confess, the change was not exactly displeasing.” He gave Amandil that nod of understanding, man to man. “It was just that strange quiet, like she was sleep-walking. And then last night, I couldn’t find her anywhere. A whole group of us went looking for her and finally she was found down by the river staring at the water, just staring. I fear what she may have been about.” He chewed on his lip.  
  
“It does sound strange. Why do you think it was something the Zigûr did?”  
  
“Who else could it be? Look, my Lord, she goes out in the morning yammering at me like a wildcat. Hits me on the head with a pan, mind you. Says she’s going to tend to the Zigûr’s thrashed back and when she returns, well, it’s as if she became a ghost.”  
  
“Have others remarked on the change?”  
  
“Yes, indeed. It’s spreading around the healers’ area. We’ve tried to keep it quiet, but rumors go like fire in the hay.”  
  
“Why did you come to me?” Amandil asked.  
  
“I didn’t know anyone else who might be, um, discreet enough, to deal with this witchery.”  
  
Amandil sighed. “Bring your wife to me and I’ll talk to her.”  
  
“Oh, bless you, my Lord. Thank you. That would be a relief,” the healer said. “Well, I’ll not trouble you further.” Carefully setting down the empty mug, Yanak rose, bowed, and left the tent.  
  
Shortly thereafter Elendil returned.  
                                          
“Did you hear?” Amandil asked.  
  
“A little. Either the poor woman has lost her wits, or . . .”  
  
“Or Annatar is up to his old tricks. And actually, that should not be so astonishing. I’m more surprised he hasn’t done something before now.” Amandil nodded thoughtfully. “I’m thinking on the return voyage it might be prudent to take Annatar aboard our ship, for safe-keeping you see, and then one dark night, quietly drop him over the side.”  
  
“Are you serious?” Elendil asked.  
  
“I wish I was not.”  
  
Elendil sat down on the hassock and poured himself a mug of tea. “I would not advise giving Annatar midnight swimming lessons as I don’t fancy having to explain to the King what happened to his prize. He has been most adamant about keeping the Zigûr close. You know he plans to parade him through the streets of Umbar and no doubt through Armenelos too?”  
  
Amandil grunted acknowledgement.  
  
“Well,” Elendil continued. “These days, I wonder if the King would remember your old friendship, Ada? If we cross him, I can see us both hanging from the gibbet. The King’s actions of late regarding Annatar have been most curious. Perhaps this woman will tell us something that we can take to the King to show him what Annatar is capable of?”  
  
“I don’t know if the King's behavior is so curious,” Amandil replied. “I mean the offer of eternal youth, becoming like one of the elves? That’s mighty tempting. The more my bones ache, the more pleasing it sounds.”  
  
“Ada, I can’t believe you mean that.”  
  
“Of course I do. But then do we want to pay the price? Oh and there’s always a price for such gifts. This is dragontalk Annatar is using on Calion.”  
  
“I’ve been wondering how the King plans to contain Annatar once he’s back at Armenelos?”  
  
“Perhaps he’ll chain him to his bedpost,” Amandil snorted.  
  
Elendil clucked his tongue. “Ada, that is not to be said, even in jest. I wish there were an heir to the throne because I can’t see this ending well for the King.”  
  
“Nor I,” Amandil said. He looked at Elendil. “I may have to stick my neck out with Calion and insist that we leave Annatar with the Regent in Umbar.”  
  
Then they heard a low voice calling urgently outside the tent. “Aphanuzîr, my lord, are you within?”  
  
“Enter.”  
                              
Tigôn appeared, ducking through the flap, his tender mouth drawn tight. “The King calls for you. It's urgent. We’ve been attacked.”  
  
* * * *  
When Amandil entered Ar-Pharazôn’s tent, the King was seated in his chair surrounded by a small knot of men.  Lord Azgarad’s hawk-like face looked more haggard than usual. Dark circles marred his eyes as if he too had not been sleeping well.  
  
“It’s the Haradrim,” Lord Azgarad was saying as Amandil and Elendil joined them. “Several hours ago, they ambushed the forward column led by Lord Rothîbal just as they were emerging from Arzog’s Pass. The Haradrim arrayed themselves in a long line beyond it, blocking any exit. Then, unaccountably, their commander set up his standard, just beyond bowshot, displaying a blue flag indicating he wants to talk. It’s most peculiar.”  
  
“What’s peculiar,” Lord Izindor said, “that they attacked or that they held back?”  
  
“Both,” Azgarad said, slanting an eye at Izindor.  
  
“Could it be that they’re upset about last year’s disciplinary measure in which we took home several hundred slaves?” Amandil asked mildly.  
  
“They deserved that,” Azgarad snapped. “You might recall the circumstances for that punitive expedition. Their slavers captured some of our citizens from Umbar. They had to learn better than to try it again.”  
  
It was another sore point between Amandil and the King, which Amandil did not think should be argued at this moment, not with a host of Haradrim shaking their spears at them and blocking their retreat.    
  
“They were thoroughly defeated last spring,” Azgarad continued. “And they’ve been sending tribute as per the treaty. It is madness for them to attack us now since surely they know our forces are much superior to theirs.  But they found a vulnerable spot at the Pass. I told that fool Rothîbal to send out scouts before they entered, but he went forward heedlessly, thinking there was nothing to oppose us. We are lucky. The Haradrim could have done a great amount of damage to our forces. But for them to just stop like that instead of pressing the advantage . . . ”  
  
“This is not a mere act of revenge. They want something,” Amandil said.  
  
“My conclusion as well, but what?” Azgarad asked.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn sat hunched over in his chair, chin in hand, brooding. A little behind him stood the Umbarian zirâmîki, Sûla, holding the King’s winecup. He stood very quietly, as if trying not to attract any attention, but his eyes followed the debate closely. Amandil noted that the boy sported a new ornament curling about his upper arm: a golden dragon with ruby eyes. Huh, Amandil thought, well someone had been earning the King’s favor aside from Annatar.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn stirred, addressing Azgarad. “Do we know the size of their force?”  
  
“No, my Lord,” Azgarad said. “We’ve dispatched scouts. They should return before sunrise.”  
  
“Most of the army is already settled for the evening,” Ar-Pharazôn said, “Have Rothîbal pull back within the pass and guard it. Tell his crack archers to go to the top of the hills on either side and wait for the sunrise. We will send a messenger to find out what this Haradrim captain wants and then see what the morning brings.”  
  
“That seems wise, my Lord,” Azgarad said, bowing. His glance sought out and met Amandil’s.  
  
* * * *  
  
“Do you understand your mission?” Ar-Pharazôn intoned as he handed Tigôn a letter of passage carrying his great seal in red wax.  
  
Tigôn’s face had grown pale. He bowed. “Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“Good lad. May Manwë lend you speed,” Ar-Pharazôn said. With another bow, Tigôn backed away from the King and turned to go.              
  
Sûla glanced around the room. The councilors were talking urgently amongst themselves, paying him no heed. As if to get more wine, he edged to the far end of the great tent, then set the cup down and slipped out the side entrance in time to catch Tigôn leaving by the front door.  The torchlight illuminated the messenger’s curly hair into gold froth. Tigôn strode purposefully away from the tent, but once he’d reached the shadows he doubled over, leaning his hands on his knees as if he couldn’t breathe.  
  
“Tigôn,” Sûla whispered.  
  
Tigôn stood quickly. “Mandos, Sûla! You startled me.”  
  
“Sorry.” Sûla came closer. “If I may ask, you seem upset.”  
  
“Upset! You think so!” Tigôn scrubbed his hand through his hair.   
  
Sûla put his hand on Tigôn’s forearm. “It’s a great honor to be the one the King trusts enough to carry messages in a time of war.”  
  
“An honor,” Tigôn said bitterly. “One that will, no doubt, do much for my reputation, if I survive the night.” He fiddled with a button on his jacket. “I . . . Sûla, I don’t know if I can walk into an enemy camp like that, all alone.”  
  
Sûla withdrew his hand. “His Lordship’s elite guard will accompany you, and messengers have safe passage, even among the Haradrim.”  
  
“Unless they decide they want to make a point of some kind. In that case, guess whose head they’ll send back.” Tigôn wiped a hand over his mouth. “They can’t be happy about losing that battle last year.  Have you heard what the Haradrim do to their prisoners?”  
  
“Heard?” Sûla snorted. “You forget, Tigôn, that I used to live near Haradrim territory. I saw people who’d been held captive by them, and yes, I will not lie to you, there is a danger. But the tales told in Númenor are exaggerated. The Haradrim are an honorable people, despite what you might have heard. They will respect the messenger’s safe passage. I would swear my life on it.”  
                              
“Would you? Then you can go in my stead,” Tigôn replied.  
  
“Ha, they would take one look at me and decide that I had escaped from their slavers,” Sûla said. “You, at least, look the part of a blooded Númenórean.”  
  
“I’m not sure that will aid me,” Tigon said, biting his lip.    
      
“That’s not the attitude you need to have with the Haradrim,” Sûla said.  “They value bravery.  You must be strong, brash, and forthright.” Sûla gestured with a fist. “Oh and courteous, too. Don’t insult them.”  
  
“Brash, and yet courteous, interesting combination to try to pull off,” Tigôn replied, running his hand through his hair again.  He sighed as if  resigned to his fate. “Well, then farewell, Sûla. I have enjoyed playing bones with you.”  
  
“I, too,” Sûla replied. He coughed. “You have to return, you know, because you need to win back all the things I took from you.”  
  
Tigôn chuckled. “Maybe that’s a reason not to return. You are much too good at ratcatcher, but I did match you last night.”  
  
“So you did, but I won the two nights before. I guess the little zirâmîki is good at more than painting his lips and offering up his arse, huh?”  
  
Tigôn rolled his eyes. “I should have known you wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to say something vulgar.”  
  
“You think that was vulgar,” Sûla laughed, “you haven’t heard anything yet.  Don’t you care for lewd pillow talk? No?”  He leaned forward, pursing his lips. “Give me a kiss goodbye, then. This could be your last opportunity to taste the pleasures of my mouth.”  
  
Tigôn laughed. “If it is truly the last time you’ll offer, that alone would be worth the danger. I am not going to kiss you. Not ever.”  
  
“Then you’ll never know what Aman tastes like,” Sûla said, looking at him through his lashes.  
  
“Sûla, please, I don’t need your usual shite. I, uh, need a friend right now,” Tigôn sighed. “Strange as it may sound, I think that’s you.”  
  
“Is it?” It was a surprising thought.   
  
“I just want to tell you, that is . . . if I don’t come back . . .”  
  
“Yes?” Sûla suddenly found his heart beating audibly.  
  
“Please ask the King to send a message to my father, Lord Eärdur of Eldalondë. Tell him . . . that I always tried to make him proud.”  
  
Sûla nodded and swallowed past the knot in his throat. His father had died when he was quite young and he’d never entertained the slightest hope that his step-father would be proud of him. “I can do that,” he said.  
  
“And um, well, you can have my ivory bones set that the King gave me,” Tigôn said.  
  
Sûla felt a sudden warmth, and with it came nervousness. “There will be no need to give up your royal gift, Tigôn. I will say the warding spells for you. To ensure your safe return.”  
  
Tigôn flashed a lopsided smile, startling in its beauty. “Let’s hope your Umbarian magic is greater than the Haradrim’s,” he said. “Well, I’ve tarried long enough. I should be gone by now.”  
  
“Tigôn,” Sûla began, but then words failed him. Instead, he threw his arms about his friend. Tigôn stiffened a little, seemingly holding his breath, but he did not pull away, and for a moment he relaxed into Sûla’s embrace. Sûla gave his back a friendly pat, then released him, saying, “May Zizzûn protect you from evil.”  
  
“Thank you, my friend,” Tigôn said. His face hardened, and with the look of one doomed, he strode off into the night. Sûla watched him until he was gone, a strange roiling in his heart. Had he ever had a real friend before? And now he might lose him. He crept back into the tent, hoping that in all the turmoil, the King hadn’t noticed his absence.  
  
***********  
Luncatur  - (Quenya) “wain lord.” Thanks to Malinornë for the translation.  
  
Note concerning Amandil’s ring. What a fascinating history Tolkien gives this ring!  It is, of course, the Ring of Barahir, a gift from Finrod Felagund for saving him in the Battle of Sudden Flame (Dagor Bragollach).  Stanzas in the Lay of Leithian describe it as wrought in the form of entwined serpents with glittering green jewels for eyes “that met beneath a golden crown of flowers, that one upholds and one devours.”  Barahir was killed by an orc and his hand with the ring severed, but Barahir’s son Beren avenged the death and retrieved the hand and the ring.  The ring passed from Beren to his son Dior to his daughter Elwing to her son Elros who took it to Númenor. Then, it passed to each succeeding King until Tar-Elendil gave it to his daughter Silmariën who gave it to her son Valandil, the first Lord of Andúnië.  From there the heirloom passed father to son, from Isildur to the Kings of Arnor and then the Kings of Arthedain. The last King of Arthedain gave it in thanks for aid to the Lossoth (Snowmen) of Forochel. The Dunédain of the north ransomed it and it was kept at Rivendell until Elrond gave it to Aragorn many years later.  
                  
Silmariën (Quenya) “silver-garlanded maiden’ or ‘silver-crowned lady’- elfscribe’s name for Amandil’s wife (unnamed, as usual, by Tolkien) who died many years earlier than the events in this story.  She was named after the queen who founded the line of the Lords of Andúnië. Another thanks to Mal for the translation.   
  
zirâmîki - “beloved boy,” elfscribe invented Adûnaic term for courtesan

-tbc-


	12. The Haradrim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tigôn visits the Haradren encampment while (Sauron) Mairon offers Ar-Pharazôn some military aid.
> 
> Author’s note: Aphanuzîr is Amandil’s Adûnaic name.

Within the confines of his tent, Mairon paced back and forth in agitation, his chains clinking.  “You say the Haradrim staged an ambush at the Pass, then sat down quietly on the plain and asked to talk?”  
  
Sûla nodded, a muscle in his jaw bunching as he laid out the evening meal on a low table.  “So they tell me. No one knows what they want.  The King sent a messenger to find out.”  
  
“I know what they want.  It’s obvious. The fools!” Mairon snarled.     
  
Sûla looked up, alert. “What, my Lord?”  
  
“Me!” Mairon spat. He smacked his forehead with an open palm.  “Ai, I should have foreseen this complication.”   
  
“Why would they want you?” Sûla ventured.  
  
“Why?  Why do they want the greatest sorcerer in Middle-earth?  Figure it out for yourself my little sweetmeat.”    
  
Sûla ducked his head but persisted. “I thought the Haradrim were allied with you and that the Serpent clan worship you as a deity?  Perhaps they think you will be grateful if they free you?”  
  
The boy was right on the mark. Mairon glared at him. “You are much too clever, Sûla. You must look and act more foolish or you will land that sweet little arse in an anthill of trouble.”  
  
Sûla’s face took on a dull expression. “Yes, my Lord.”  He bowed.  “I’d best return to the King.”     
Mairon flapped a hand at him. “Come back later; I may need you.”  He sat down to the meal, wondering what to do. He remembered his advisor Gron’s map with the little colored markers and heard his creaking voice saying, ‘six thousands from Haradwaith.’  It was a mere fraction of Ar-Pharazôn’s force. Before Mairon left, he’d ordered Dolgu to send a message to Hybernan, the Haradrim king, telling him to withdraw.  Why hadn’t he? Hybernan must know Ar-Pharazôn’s forces were superior. But then he hadn’t attacked; instead, he’d asked to talk.  And Mairon had a fair idea why. Deluded fool! Why couldn’t he just do as he was told!  
  
He sensed Sûla pausing at the door. Anxiety fluttered about the boy like moths in the lamplight. Mairon could almost hear his thoughts. It was an emotional state that drew him. “You have a question. What is it?” Mairon asked, looking up.  
  
“My Lord, the King . . .  he sent his messenger, Tigôn, to talk to the Haradrim.  I would like to ask if I may, is there a spell you can cast that will safeguard him?” Pressing his hands together, Sûla brought them up against his mouth in a pleading gesture characteristic of the Umbarians.  
  
Oh ho, Mairon thought, he cares about the boy. A good piece of information to file away.  He relaxed his face into a kind expression. “Spells that will keep him safe? How long has he been gone?”  
  
“Several hours.”    
  
“Hmm,” Mairon murmured. “Do you have something of this boy’s? Something he touched?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Sûla said. “The buttons on my breeches, they used to belong to him. I won them in a game of ratcatcher.”  
  
“Come here. I need to touch them,” Mairon said, then laughed. “I think it best if you pull a button off and give it to me. I don’t fancy having the King walk in here with my hand on your crotch. My back is still sore from his displeasure on the subject.”  
  
Sûla cracked a half-smile.  He took out a pocket knife, cut off one of the buttons and handed it to Mairon.   
  
Mairon closed his hand about the button, feeling it warm to his touch, looking for the vibrations around this messenger boy, Tigôn.  Mostly the button spoke of Sûla.  Long minutes passed and he was aware of Sûla at his side, impatiently shifting from foot to foot. Nothing. The messenger must be at the limits of his range. Then yes, very faintly, he had a sense of the boy, a whiff of fear. Ah yes, this was the one on whom Sûla had tried the freezing spell a few nights ago.  He could still sense it like a distant echo.  “I’ve got him,” he said.    
  
“I’ve already said the warding spells for him,” Sûla said, chewing a nail. “But they’ve never . . . I’m not . . .  I don’t have your power, my Lord.”  
  
“Look at me,” Mairon said. Sûla raised his eyes, so lovely, a soft golden brown, the lids lined with kohl. “In this instance,” Mairon said, “you are better suited than I to conjure a warding spell since you know this young man more intimately.” Ah, he felt Sûla flutter. “You are more attuned to him. That is, you would be, if you had the power. Would you like to gain a little more power, Sûla?  So that you could protect yourself and your friends?”  
  
The boy’s eyes widened, then a hunger curled his mouth. “Yes, my Lord,” he said.  
  
Mairon suppressed his smile.  He was reminded of Dolgu when they first met.  So much useful pain and anger beneath the surface. Although this boy was younger and perhaps even more pliable. “You’ve taken the first step when you learned to wield the freezing spell,” Mairon said. “I can continue your instruction, if you like – under one condition, the King must never find out.”    
Sûla nodded. “He will never hear about it from my lips.”  
  
“Good. Hold out your hand,” Mairon said. “Together we can augment the magic.”  
  
Mairon dropped the button into the boy’s extended hand, then pressed Sûla’s fingers around it, enclosing his fist within his own hands. “Think about him. Think about the essence of this boy, his personality. Do you feel him?” he commanded.  Mairon sensed energy snaking in small eddies around Sûla. He spun it, drawing the threads in closer, closer.   
  
There was a long pause while Sûla’s eyes glazed.  Then he smiled. “Yes,” he said in a pleased voice.  “I think I do.”    
  
“Clever boy.  You’re a natural talent,” Mairon said. He could feel Sûla lighten with the praise.  “Now then. We’re going to erect a protective shield around him that will repel a weapon.  It won’t keep back a determined attack, we’re too far away, but it will be better than nothing. Are you ready?”    
  
“Yes,” Sûla breathed.    
  
“And afterwards, Sûla, you must go to the King.  Tell him I have the solution to the problem with the Haradrim and would like an audience.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla said, sounding pleased. He lifted his eyes to Mairon’s, shining with the glow of worship that Mairon craved. A lovely boy.  An asset to his ambitions.  Perhaps, Mairon thought, he could turn even this setback with the Haradrim to an advantage. If all went well when this was over, the King would be beholden to him.  As ever, he must be careful not to show too much of his power. Ar-Pharazôn must believe that he was the one in control. It was a gamble but Mairon was nearly purring with the challenge. Smiling at the boy, he said, “Repeat after me, Sûla . . .”  
  
* * *   
Breathe, Tigôn told himself, forcing his cold fingers to relax on the reins.  He could hear his father’s voice in his head during fighting practice more than a year ago calling, ‘stay loose, stay loose,’ while Tigôn battled his gangly limbs, trying not to cut his own head off. Then invariably, his father would say, ‘Tactics, Tigôn, especially important if you are physically weaker than your opponent. Watch his eyes. Try to anticipate where he’s going next and be there first. Move.’      
    
A cold wind blew in his face. The walls of the pass towered up on either side, blacker than the night. To his left, he could hear the sound of water roaring far below in the canyon. The full moon was newly risen over the canyon walls. The sound of the horses’ hooves, both his own and the company of guards on either side, thudded in his ears. He wondered if he would survive the night.  Every tale he’d heard of Haradrim torture and mutilation permeated his fevered thoughts. But worrying was not productive; he should calm his mind, focus on the task at hand. He patted the neck of his bay.  Breathe.   
  
They passed another encampment of Lord Rothîbal’s forces, huddled around small fires, not having had time or space to set up their tents.    
  
“Halt,” called Hazûn, one of his guards.  He raised a mailed fist.  They pulled up short, their horses side-stepping, snorting.  Another group of men appeared, moonlight glinting off of their armor, the burly figure of Lord Rothîbal in their midst.  “Who goes there?” one called.  
  
“The King’s messenger,” Hazûn replied.    
  
The group approached.  One held aloft a torch as Rothîbal came up close to Tigôn, squinting in the flickering light.  “Oh it’s you, Tigôn,” he said in his high-pitched raspy voice. “Tell me, what does Ar-Pharazôn plan?”  
  
“I’m to find out what the Haradrim want and report back,” Tigôn said, in as confident a tone as he could muster.   
  
“What does the King wish of me?” Rothîbal asked.   
  
“He said you are to hold the Pass here until such time as you receive different orders.”   
  
“Ah, no change in orders then,” Rothîbal came closer and said under his breath. “Tell me, is the King vexed . . . with me?”   
  
Tigôn paused.  It was never a good idea to involve himself in the politics between the lords and his King.  “He is not pleased at the interruption in the march,” he replied. “But I think his anger is directed at the Haradrim. Hopefully, we’ll know more when I return.”  
  
“I’ll look for you,” Rothîbal said.  Then he grinned. “Have a care out there Tigôn.  The Haradrim can be unforgiving of mistakes.  I’ve seen too many trees decorated with their flayed prisoners in past campaigns.  Be off with you then.”  He swatted the rump of Tigôn’s horse, which jumped forward into a trot before Tigôn slowed him to allow the guards to catch up.  
  
Thank you very much for the boost in confidence, my lord, Tigôn thought as he and his escort left Rothîbal behind.  About a half mile down canyon, Tigôn saw the pass widen to reveal the vast plain beyond.   
  
Hazûn turned, speaking over his shoulder.  “We need to use caution here,” he said. “I expect they have scouts waiting.”  
  
Suddenly, they heard a clattering up ahead, as if a load of pebbles was rolling down a cliff.  Several riders appeared, wearing armor.  They halted, swaying slightly on their horses.  One advanced until Tigôn could see him fairly clearly.  He wore a helmet that ended in a sharp crest, a cuirass of small, interlocking wicker plates, and carried a long spear. A scarf covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible.  “Are you the messenger from Ar-Pharazôn?” he called in accented Adûnaic.  
  
“Yes,” Tigôn swallowed.    
  
“Come with me,” he said, abruptly turning his horse.  Tigôn’s guards began to follow and the Southron stopped.  “Only the messenger,” he said.    
  
The guards looked at Tigôn and he nodded, his throat dry.   
  
“We’ll await you here,” Hazûn said, giving Tigôn a friendly pat on the thigh. Then, under his breath, he added, “Keep a wary eye out. May Manwë protect you.”  
  
“Thank you,” Tigôn said stiffly.  He followed the escort of about a dozen Haradrim out into the open plain.  Soon he became aware that more of them were following, closing in around him.  Here and there, like bright orange flowers in the darkness, he could see campfires.  The wind was stronger out here, blowing a stinging dust.  Tigôn could see why the Haradrim covered their faces. Eventually, they reached a large campfire.  Surrounded by the sounds of snorting horses, creaking leather, and clanking metal, Tigôn halted his own horse.  He watched the approach of a tall man on foot wearing a scarlet cloak over his armor and a headwrap, with the face scarf pulled down around his neck. His black hair flowed over his shoulders in two long plaits, braided with gold and lapis beads.  His face was weathered, burned dark by the sun, with a scar along one broad cheek.   
  
“Are you the Númenórean messenger?” he called in a rumbling voice.                
  
“Yes,” Tigôn’s voice squeaked and he thought he would die on the spot.  He could hear his father telling him that now was the time to show his mettle, to earn the high-ranking position the King had granted him, but he was nearly paralyzed with fear. He cleared his throat, pressed his knuckles against his horse’s neck to ground himself and said in as deep a tone as he could, “I am the messenger of Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor. Who are you?”  
  
“Aksan, Chief of the Serpent Clan and nephew to King Hybernan of the tribe you call the Haradrim. You are expected. Come with me.”    
  
Something about the man made Tigôn shiver.  He dismounted.  His legs felt like water when they hit the ground, but grew stronger as he walked.  The others closed in behind him.  He could feel their hostility like a physical barrier. A large man with a blue facial tattoo of some intricate curly design and a ring through his nose blocked Tigôn’s path. Tigôn swallowed as he looked up at the mountain towering over him.  
   
“An insult, Aksani. They’ve sent us a mere boy,” the man mocked, thumping Tigôn’s chest with a forefinger. “One who looks like he’s about to wet his pants. Perhaps he’s one of the Númenórean King’s pretty suckcocks. Clearly the King is not taking us seriously. We should send his boy's vâkis back in a bag.”  
  
There were some guffaws and a surge of movement. The men closed in, shoulder to shoulder. Some rested their hands on dagger hilts; others leaned on their spears. Tigôn swallowed.  This was the moment of truth. He recalled what Sûla had said.  Brash but courteous.  He drew himself up and stared fiercely into the man’s dark eyes.  “A boy!” he declared, summoning up a righteous anger that he currently didn’t feel.  “I’ll have you know I am the son of Lord Eärdur of Eldalondë and the personal messenger of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, an honor I have earned through many campaigns.”  An exaggeration but Tigôn felt the exact truth of his recent appointment would not avail him. “Do you speak for these people?” He poked the man in the chest in the same manner as he’d been treated, and looked for Aksan, who was clearly the leader.  He had halted a little further ahead, and was watching, amused but wary.  He was the key.  
  
Tigôn pulled the King’s letter from his pouch and thrust it past the tattooed man toward Aksan. “My King sends his respectful greetings to the great Haradrim empire, but he asks, why you have arrayed your forces as if for battle?”  
  
“He asks why we threaten battle,” Tattoo Face mocked, his voice pitched high like a woman’s. “Has the Númenórean King forgotten that only last year he attacked us without provocation?  My brother was killed in that fight and viciously hacked to pieces.”  He stroked the little goatee on his chin. “I wonder how long you could live without your pretty white skin. I would like to wear it as a nightshirt.”  With a cruel smile, he drew a long, curved knife.  
  
Tigôn’s heart thundered in his chest, his palms sweaty. Was this to be his death then? He tried to speak, but the words stuck. The man feinted, making a slicing motion. Tigôn threw up a hand to block it, but there was no need. Suddenly his assailant’s arm snapped back as if repelled.  Swearing, he dropped the knife with a clang, shaking his hand as if it pained him. What in Mandos’ name? No time to question it. Tigôn felt his fear drop away and a clear-eyed strength took its place. He stepped onto the knife blade.   
  
“I had heard the Haradrim were a hospitable people,” Tigôn said in a tone ripe with threat, “and that they honor the sacred role of the messenger.  Is that not so?  In any event, I doubt it would serve your purpose to kill me, since you are the ones who planted the flag and indicated you wanted to talk. But if you have changed your minds,” he shrugged, “I’ll be going. I’m missing a lovely party back at the King’s tent . . . with strong drink and beautiful dancing girls. I was hoping to get lucky.”  He winked.   
  
The men around Tigôn chuckled, breaking the tension.  Aksan grinned.  He came forward, landing a heavy hand on the tattooed man’s shoulder. “Rhag ena,” he said sharply. “Stand away, Korizar, your master is no longer in charge here. It appears that Ar-Pharazôn chooses his servants well. This one is not easily intimidated.  What is your name, messenger?”  
  
“Tigôn, son of Eärdur.”  
  
“Come with me, Tigôn, son of Eärdur.”   
  
Someone took his horse’s reins and Tigôn found himself in the midst of a jostling crowd, sweeping him along amidst excited chatter.  Aksan bade him sit by the roaring fire, which was throwing sparks high into the air.  A man brought him a wooden cup filled with some kind of foaming brew. Tigôn eyed it suspiciously.    
  
Aksan sat next to him, leaning against a leather saddle covered with beautifully woven blankets.  Accepting a flagon of the brew, he raised it in the air, and roared something in his own tongue, the rest of his men did likewise. Then they gulped it down. Tigôn took a swallow and choked on beer laced with a bitter herb.  He steeled his expression. “It’s good,” he stammered.    
  
“It’ll put hair on your vâkis, little messenger.” Aksan clapped him on the back nearly causing Tigôn to spew his mouthful.   
  
“Now then, let’s talk.  I believe in plain speaking, not cowering behind Númenórean air talk.”  
  
“So do I,” Tigôn said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.    
  
“So, I shall forgo the hunt and go for the kill. We have heard that your King took the Zigûr prisoner.  Is it so?”  
  
“Not completely,” Tigôn replied. “The Zigûr surrendered to us.”  
  
Aksan frowned. “I cannot believe that,” he said.  
  
“Whether or not you choose to believe it, it is true,” Tigôn said. “I have seen him for myself.”   
  
“What does he look like?”   
  
“Very tall and beautiful, like an elf with long, red hair and the eyes of a cat,” Tigôn said.   
  
Aksan looked thoughtful.  “Strange,” he said.  “I've only seen him once before – and he did not look like that.  Are you sure this is The Zigûr of Mordor?”   
  
“Reasonably sure,” Tigôn replied.  “He showed us images of Thangorodrim with dragons flying about.  If it is not him, then it is another great sorcerer who has seen Morgoth’s works.”   
  
Aksan’s eyes narrowed.  He leaned forward.  “This is an outrage,” he snarled. “How dare you unbalance the dark forces by defiling our god! We want him delivered to us or we will make your King pay dearly to go through the Pass.  That is our message.”  
  
“What will you do if the King refuses?”  
  
“Many of you will not return to your island fortress,” Aksan said. “Tell him we demand that the Zigûr be brought to the mouth of the Pass by noon tomorrow. No tricks.”     
  
Tigôn nodded. “I will bear that message.  But the Zigûr is a great prize and it is unlikely that Ar-Pharazôn will give him up simply because you ask for him.”  
  
“Then the King will doom himself and all his subjects,” Aksan said calmly. “Hear my words.  I am a Serpent priest and know this to be true. The one you call the Zigûr has powers you cannot comprehend. You will pay a great price if you take him to your world. I have foreseen it.”  
  
“I hear you,” Tigôn said, “but I suspect the more likely outcome is that you will all be dead by noon tomorrow and we will still hold the Zigûr in chains.”  With an effort, he finished his drink.  “Will that be all?”  He could already feel a slight headache coming on and longed to be back at the camp, preferably face down in his fur-lined cot.  
  
“No, you spoke the truth, we have not treated you hospitably,” Aksan said, with a sly smile. “I wish to amend that. You must stay until the moon is high. It will not delay you overlong. We like to dance too. Come,” he waved at his men. “Strike up a drum.  Tomorrow will tell itself.” He laughed, putting a heavily-muscled arm about Tigôn’s shoulders. “More orzini for our guest,” he called. He smelled like the bitter herbs in the beer. Tigôn looked at the dozens of fierce men seated around, all laughing at him, and did his best to smile.     
  
* * * *   
Having delivered his news, Sûla bowed low, his long black tresses sliding over his shoulders.  So, Pharazôn mused, Annatar wished to speak with him about the Haradrim situation. Things were becoming more interesting all the time. He turned from the map that Azgarad and Aphanuzîr had laid out on the table, and gestured to the guards. “Bring the Zigûr here.”  
  
As Sûla rose and backed away, the fire from the brazier starkly lit his face. There seemed something harder about his expression, something about his eyes, Pharazôn thought.  Perhaps he would outgrow his prettiness faster than some of the other boys.  A shame.  He was a gifted bedmate.  Well, it didn’t matter, there were more where he came from. These days it was Annatar who filled Pharazôn’s waking thoughts, who appeared naked in his dreams, beckoning with a slender finger encased in a fiery golden ring, his parted lips promising delicious pleasures.    
  
The memory of the beating and its aftermath haunted Pharazôn.  It felt like a dangerous loss of control, one he could ill afford.  He knew his two most valued servants, Azgarad, his Steward, and Aphanuzîr, his longtime friend and councilor, did not approve of taking Annatar prisoner and they might be right. But there were clear advantages to having access to the Zigur’s knowledge that he hoped would prove him right in time.  He fingered his lips, thinking of that coupling.  He had relived it in his thoughts, over and over, relishing the surge of pleasure the memory afforded. At the same time it troubled him. Something was not right about the whole encounter. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that Annatar had enticed him purposefully. Annatar had wanted it. Perhaps he had even enjoyed it.  And why not?  Pharazôn knew himself to be an accomplished lover with considerable stamina. What harm could it do, once they were back in Armenelos, to have Annatar lie at his side on the banqueting couch?  It would be the ultimate show of his power and at the same time, let the Zigûr know his place.  
  
In the meantime, he must get hold of himself.  The current situation caused anger to roil about in his belly. How dare the Haradrim oppose him? Up until now the campaign had been faultless and his objective accomplished with no loss of life or resources. His wisdom proven. He didn’t like unforeseen events. That fool Rothîbal would pay for having ignored Azgarad’s orders and failing to send scouts ahead through the Pass. Pharazôn watched Azgarad, gaunt face intent, poring over their inadequate map of the region and said, “Why are we even treating with the Haradrim? We can overwhelm them.”  
  
“They could block that pass for quite some time, and inflict great losses upon us,” Aphanuzîr said, thoughtfully stroking his silver-flecked beard. “It is the weakest point in our march.”  
  
“We can’t let them get away with such impudence,” Pharazôn replied. “I say let them attack us. We came to Endor expecting a battle and our men are spoiling for a fight. This is as good a time to give it to them as any. In the morning we can charge through the pass and overwhelm them.”  
  
“That tactic will do no good if the pass becomes choked with bodies, my Lord,” Aphanuzîr said, lifting his grey eyes to look wearily at him. “Better to hear their terms and see if we can accommodate them with far fewer losses.”  
  
“When did you become such a craven, Aphanuzîr?” Pharazôn said gruffly. “You were not that way in your youth.”  
  
Aphanuzîr’s forehead crumpled angrily, but he set his jaw and said nothing. Good.  Annatar was right the other evening. Aphanuzîr traded on their long friendship and all too often spoke his mind in front of others, making Pharazôn appear weak.   
      
Pharazôn heard the guards in the outer foyer and the clank of chain. They entered with the prisoner shuffling between them. Pharazôn felt his body hum at the sight of that willowy form with the exotic cat-like eyes. The silky red hair fell like a burnished mantle about his shoulders. Pharazôn thought it might feel heavy and cool wrapped in his fingers. And those lips!  The last time he’d visited Annatar in his tent, intending to talk, he could not keep his eyes from them. Finally, just as he had risen to leave, he found himself grasping Annatar by the back of the head, roughly kissing his mouth. He’d realized what he was doing in time, realized he was losing control, and fled in a most unkingly fashion.  But it wasn’t a weakness, was it?  He had every right to treat his prisoner as he wished.    
  
Annatar’s alluring lips quirked slyly, then he inclined his head in a respectful manner.  “My Lord,” he said in that dulcet voice. “You wished to speak to me?”  
  
“My cupbearer said you knew something about the Haradrim army blocking our path to Umbar.”  
  
Annatar dipped his head again. “I do.”  
    
“Well, bring him here,” Pharazôn growled at the guards, who hastened to do as he bid. “Have a seat, Annatar, just there. Sûla, get him a drink.” Pharazôn snapped his fingers at his cupbearer. Both Azgarad and Aphanuzîr’s expressions were stony as Sûla dipped up the mulled wine, and with a bow, presented the goblet to Annatar, who smiled prettily in response.    
  
“There, that will whet your voice,” Pharazôn said. “Tell us, Annatar is our intelligence correct? Are the Haradrim part of your forces?”  
  
“Alas, no,” Annatar said. “To my great disappointment, King Hybernan failed to honor the alliance made by his nephew Aksan and attend my summons. I wonder what he wants now?”  His lips quirked again as if he found the situation humorous.  
  
“I suspect you know,” Aphanuzîr said.  
  
Annatar turned to him. “I do not know, but I can guess. Think about it. What do you now possess that you did not when you disembarked at Umbar nearly a fortnight ago?”  
  
“You,” Aphanuzîr replied. “Are you saying they want you?  But why?”  
  
Azgarad raised his sleek head. “Perhaps they have bethought themselves and now plan to honor your alliance?”    
  
Impatiently, Annatar waved a hand. “The Haradrim are loyal to none but themselves.”  
  
“What did you promise King Hybernan in return for his aid in this war?” Pharazôn asked.  
  
“The usual: power, land,” Annatar replied. “They would love to expand up to the River Anduin. I suspect the rumor of the size of your great army is what caused them to fail in their promise to come to Mordor. That is also what caused the Umbarian pirates to bugger off. But now that I am vulnerable, they might believe there is something more I could offer them if they could lay hold of my person.”  
  
Pharazôn felt a sudden grip in his belly. “They want your knowledge, the elixir of youth, don’t they?  They know you’ve got the secret and want to force it from you.”  
  
Annatar’s eyes lit. “Very good,” he said. “I do not relish being skinned alive, their usual method of interrogation.”  
  
“You are familiar with them.  What do you believe is the best way to counter this?” Pharazôn said.   
  
Annatar paused, languidly using a finger to stir his wine and then sucking the finger between those artfully curved lips.  He said, “Tell me, why should I help you? You, who put me in chains when I surrendered to you in good faith?”  
  
“Good faith, I hardly believe that,” Aphanuzîr snorted.  
  
Pharazôn laid a quieting hand on Aphanuzîr’s arm. “The way I see it, Annatar, you have no choice. I could turn you over to their tender care or keep you and find my own creative ways to force your cooperation.”   
  
“Better than the ones you’ve already employed?”Annatar asked.  He shifted on the hassock in a way that managed to look both seductive and as if sitting pained him. “As I recall five days ago, you paid me a visit early in the morning and worked me over with a particularly nasty whip and certain . . . other implements.  You said that if I cooperated, I might earn some freedoms.  Well, have I not cooperated, so far?”  
  
Pharazôn opened his mouth to retort and then let the unsaid words writhe in his throat.  He noticed that Azgarad and Aphanuzîr traded a glance.  Did they know what had happened? Quite likely.  He cleared his throat. “Yes, I do recall that,” he said uncertainly.   
  
Annatar fingered the rim of his cup. “Great King, you are not utilizing my skills to your best advantage.  I have vast experience in warfare and tactical knowledge that might give you an edge.  If I were to share that with you, enabling you to be victorious against your enemies, would you strike the chains from my wrists and ankles and allow me to walk with dignity?”   
  
“Uh!” Azgarad growled, throwing up his hands.  “I can’t believe we’re wasting time listening to this honeyed liar.”  
    
“Enough, Azgarad,” Pharazôn said. “We have this well in hand.” He turned to Annatar. “You are not in a position to dictate anything. Tell us what you know and if your word proves true and your advice sound, I will think about the chains.”  The fire in the brazier flickered.      
  
“A bargain of sorts,” Annatar said, demurely lowering his eyes. “Very well, if that’s the best I can do, let’s have a look at your map.”  Azgarad abruptly shifted his chair aside so Annatar could move in.  “Crude,” Annatar said, as he bent to examine the map, “but adequate.  Now here is the Pass, a long narrow canyon, the short way onto the plain.  When we were planning our tactics to counter your invasion, we intended to allow you to enter the pass and then block the back end with a full company of our troops.  I would have placed a force on the other side where we are currently encamped to engage the front columns.”    
  
“We still would have overwhelmed you,” Pharazôn said smugly. “When we saw what you were about, we would have sent our armies around the long way.  Here.”  
  
“We planned to bring up catapults,” Annatar replied. “We would have bottled up a goodly portion of your force in the Pass from both sides, flinging fireballs among you.  It would be like toasting meat on a stick. Even if you had broken through, we would have inflicted serious damage.”     
  
“Carnage,” Azgarad muttered, his gaunt face looking pale.   
  
Pharazôn had time to absorb how lucky they were that this had not happened.  “And still you surrendered,” he said.  
  
“That would have been one skirmish,” Annatar said, pushing his long red hair out of his eyes. “Although undoubtedly we might have won there, ultimately we were evenly matched and our forces would have ground each other down.  It’s not efficient.  Too much waste.  Don’t you agree?”  
  
Pharazôn nodded. “But this case is different. They are on the other side ready to block us in. We face the scenario you just described but coming at it from the other direction.  As I said, I could bring the bulk of the troops around here, circumventing the Pass and encircling them on the other side,” he thumped the map.  “But it’s about sixty miles out of the way and will take too long.”  
  
“Ah yes,” Annatar smiled like a well-fed cat. “But I know some things that you do not. There are ancient tunnels within the Pass leading to either side, here and here.   We delved them out wider to hide our equipment.”  He voice grew even softer and sweeter. “We stored catapults under there and ammunition–a secret recipe that bursts into flame when it hits the ground. The tunnels lead out to the plain – a short cut. You can move an entire force there in about a third of the time it would take to go around.”  
  
“Ah!” Pharazôn, Azgarad, and Aphanuzîr all said at once, their faces lighting.   
  
“We can move the engines through the tunnels and come out onto the plain, from either side,” Annatar continued. “In the meantime, we’ll post your archers all along the top of the Pass.  We’ll try to lure the Haradrim to the mouth of the pass and bring your forces around behind them. They will be surrounded and overwhelmed. You will be able to capture the ones that survive the assault. More slaves to work your gold mines and I’ll have my revenge for their failure to hold to their agreement. We both win. What do you say?”  
  
“Hmmm,” Pharazôn stroked his chin, noting that he needed a shave. “But don’t the Haradrim know about these tunnels as well?”  
  
“They may, but it will not avail them.  We’ll move tonight stealthily.  They will not be suspecting it.”  
  
“What if you are tricking me, Annatar?” Pharazôn glared at him.  
  
“You’ll have me surrounded by your guards.  If all is not as I have said, you can order them to kill me,” Mairon replied amiably.    
  
Pharazôn looked at Azgarad who looked at Aphanuzîr.  Slowly they all nodded.    
  
“So be it,” Pharazôn said. There was a heavy feeling in the air like the sweetness of snuffed candles.   
  
“I suggest you begin moving your forces now so we can be ready at dawn,” Annatar said.   
  
“Agreed,” Pharazôn replied.   
  
“My Lord,” Sûla said softly from just behind his left shoulder. “What about Tigôn?  He’s coming back with a message and we don’t want the Haradrim to suspect anything while they still have him, or he may suffer the brunt of their displeasure. My Lord.”  
  
Pharazôn stroked his chin. “Of course, I had not forgotten about him.  I’ll send a small sortie out to escort him back safely before we begin the assault.”    
  
“Now then,” Azgarad said. “I’ll begin to mobilize the army.  It’s going to take a few hours to get them out of bed and ready to move.  In the meantime, Annatar, you will lead me and my company to scout out these tunnels. With your approval, my Lord, I suggest that Aphanuzîr follow behind me with his force.”   
  
“Yes, that will work. Aphanuzîr, send your best archers to the top of the Pass to reinforce the ones there.  Rothîbal’s force should still be just within the Pass. Have one of your men tell him to hold his position. That should be sufficient punishment for him as the brunt of the fighting may fall there.  I will lead the force that comes around on the other side,” Pharazôn said. “If this goes well, Annatar, you will have helped rid us of many of the Haradren fighters who have been a large thorn in our side.”    
  
“Happy to pluck out the thorns for you, Great King,” Annatar said inclining his head.  Briefly, the sorcerer’s tongue flicked across his lips.   
  
      
*****************  
  
Because of a dearth of canon Southron, the words below are all elfscribe inventions. Also, apparently there isn't a canon adjective for the Haradrim or name for the language the Haradrim speak.  After playing with lots of variations, Haradric, Haradaic, etc, I decided to either use "Southron" or “Haradren” which is the Sindarin adjective for southern.  If anyone knows something better, let me know:  
  
Aksan - Haradren name.  Adding the i at the end "Aksani" denotes respect   
Korizar - Haradren name.   
vâkis - Haradren word meaning genitals.   
Skazung - Haradren swear word meaning excrement.    
Rhag ena! - more invented Haradren, meaning ‘stand back.’  
orzini - another invented term for beer  
  



	13. Arzog's Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although Amandil (Aphanuzîr) and the King’s Steward, Azgarad, are deeply suspicious of Annatar, they agree to look for the tunnel under Arzog’s Pass. Meanwhile Sûla encounters the insanely bewitched Zôri and Tigôn finds himself in deep trouble with the Haradrim.

The King stared greedily at Annatar as the sorcerer dipped his long finger into his wine cup and then lifted it, dripping red, to shapely lips. In consternation, Amandil watched them both. How far had the King already involved himself with this creature? Amandil had been observing the Maia while he told them about the convenient presence of the secret tunnels under the Pass. He had to admit the sorcerer was a skilled negotiator, his feelings well hidden behind the calculating mask. But in the Zigûr’s flickering yellow eyes Amandil saw the detached interest of a cat watching a sparrow hopping within striking range. Cod’s fins, why couldn’t the King see it?  
  
The Council had known of Annatar’s alliance with the Haradrim before they embarked on this expedition and Annatar has just admitted it himself. It seemed plausible that he might want revenge if the Haradrim really had failed to come to his aid. But what if that was a lie? What if, instead, he intended to entrap a goodly portion of the Númenórean army in these tunnels to advantage the smaller Haradrim forces awaiting them beyond the Pass? Perhaps he still dreamed of coming out the winner in this contest? Or maybe, Amandil thought with sudden fear, this had been Annatar’s plan all along, and they were walking right into his net.  
  
Lord Azgarad was intently poring over the map, pinching his lower lip between finger and thumb and occasionally casting a sidelong glance at the Zigûr. Seemingly, he was also wary of the sorcerer but knowing the practical Steward as he did, Amandil figured Azgarad was willing to deal with him as long as he thought it was to Númenor’s advantage.  
  
“Pharazôn,” Amandil ventured and the King shifted his attention away from Annatar. “I think the strategy, as we have outlined it, is acceptable as a contingency plan, but first I should like to hear what the Haradrim propose. I suggest we put our men in place and then wait for young Tigôn’s report before making a move.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn shrugged. “I can’t imagine there is anything they could offer that would make any difference.”  
  
Amandil glanced at Annatar. The King saw it and said, “Turning Annatar over to them is out of the question. He is of strategic importance.”  
  
“Still, I believe it most prudent to wait,” Amandil insisted. “When all is in place, we will send you a signal by torch relay. Up and down if all is well; side to side if there is danger. If you make the decision to attack, return the all’s well signal.”  
  
“I agree,” Azgarad said.  
  
“Very well,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “At least we will present the appearance of having considered whatever they are proposing. Once you locate the entrance to the tunnels, set a watch there to guide us. I will await your torch message before entering.”  
  
“I believe that is wise,” Amandil said. “Now, I’d best rouse my men from their beds. There is much to do.” He stood and held up his wine cup, “To victory,” he said, drained it and then handed the empty cup to Sûla. He shot a warning look at Annatar, who blinked once in return, the corners of his sumptuous mouth curling upward. Amandil seriously considered punching him.  
  
Azgarad addressed the guards, “Take charge of the prisoner until we return. Get him a horse and meet us by the opening to the Pass. If he escapes, it’s on your heads.”  
  
“Since we are going into battle,” Annatar said, “I should like to wear my armor, which you took from me.”  
  
“Bring his armor,” the King said. “We leave within the hour.”  
  
The guards bowed and ushered Annatar out of the tent. Azgarad rose. “My Lord King,” he said to Ar-Pharazôn. He turned to Amandil. “Come with me, Counselor.” Amandil bowed to the King and followed the Steward into the chilled air, feeling the ache in his bones.  
  
* * * *  
Sûla had become increasingly nervous as he stood behind the King listening to the discussion about the upcoming battle. He remembered Annatar’s words before they had performed the shielding spell to protect Tigôn. ‘This is only temporary, Sûla. It will fade away ‘ere the moon reaches its zenith.’ And now that time was a scant three hours hence. Tigôn might be in danger. As soon as the others departed, Sûla sank down before the King, clasping his knees. “Sire, I have a request.”  
  
“What?” Ar-Pharazôn responded. “Be quick about it; I am in haste.”  
  
“With your permission, I should like to go with the sortie to retrieve Tigôn.”  
  
“Why would you wish to do that?” Ar-Pharazôn frowned, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.  
  
Sûla could not think of a believable lie. “My Lord, I think Aphanuzîr is right, we should at least find out what the Haradrim want. I overheard the strategy you devised. I could ensure that nothing goes awry and that Tigôn returns safely.”  
  
“I admire your courage, Sûla, but I believe it’s misguided. What would you do if the Haradrim caught you? You are no warrior. They would sell you to some corsair’s brothel, or worse. I’d rather keep your lovely skin intact.” Ar-Pharazôn brushed the backs of his knuckles against Sûla’s cheek. Sûla looked up, pleadingly.  
  
“No,” the King growled. “I have other tasks for you. You must find my chancellor, Nibanuzîr, and tell him to take charge of gathering my household and leading them to a protected area on higher ground. I have no desire to see you all slaughtered if our plans do not work and the enemy breaks through. Hear me?”  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“Good boy. Give me a kiss for luck.” Sûla offered his mouth and Ar-Pharazôn roughly kissed it, leaving a taste of sour wine. “Now then,” the King said, “call my armorer. Quickly. We have a battle ahead of us.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn rose and went back toward his bedroom. For a moment, Sûla stood there bemused. It seemed that the King did care about him and the rest of his household. Sûla’s former master would not have given a black fig whether he lived or died. Still, he felt uneasy. He alone of all the King’s men was familiar with the Haradrim and knew that they could change strategies at any time, especially if they sensed the King was not dealing fairly with them. Sûla stretched out his energies as Annatar had taught him, but could not get a sense of his friend. He sighed. The King had given him an order that he dared not disobey, so Tigôn’s fate must be consigned to Zizzûn for now. Sûla hastened off to call into service the King’s armorer and his chancellor.  
  
* * * *  
The rising moon seemed to be swimming up through wisps of cloud, casting its eerie glow on the two dozen men making their way along the narrow road through Arzog’s Pass. Off to his left, Amandil could hear the river murmuring far below them. He and Azgarad led the sortie, riding on either side of the Zigûr. The chains about the sorcerer’s wrists chinked as his horse moved forward in its fast, pacing walk. Two men rode just behind them carrying torches. Amandil was feeling irritated and apprehensive. He did not fool himself into believing this battle would be easily won, even if it all went according to plan. They rounded a bend and the Pass opened up, with high walls on either side, black in the pale light.  
  
Annatar swept his head from side to side, his eyes visible as twin gleams through the visor in his spiked iron helm. His dense black armor seemed to absorb the torchlight. “This looks familiar. I think it’s near here,” he purred.  
  
“You think? You don’t know?” Amandil growled.  
  
“It’s been an age since I was last here,” Annatar said. “Surely you don’t imagine I accompany my forces myself?”  
  
“The mark of a coward,” Azgarad said.  
  
Annatar’s smile was visible as a flash of pointed teeth. “Mark of an effective strategist,” he said. “Do you lead your forces into battle, Lord Azgarad?”  
  
“If the situation calls for it,” Azgarad replied.  
  
“It would be foolhardy under almost any circumstance,” Annatar said smoothly. “As commander, you are much too valuable to make a target of yourself. Better to drive your forces from behind.”  
  
“Men fight better if they trust and admire their leader,” Amandil rejoined. “Sometimes that means you must stick your neck out and use your own bravery to inspire theirs.”  
  
“You Númenóreans think you are so superior,” Annatar said. “Fear is a better prod than loyalty and cleverness trumps bravery. My methods have been remarkably successful so far.”  
  
“If they were so successful, why are you the one in chains?”Amandil retorted.  
  
“Fah!” Annatar said, displeased. He lifted his hands. “I’m in chains because you do not trust me. But this night’s work will change that. Care to make a wager, either of you, on the success of our venture guided by my knowledge and foresight?”  
  
“I’m not a gambling man,” Amandil said.  
  
“Ah, but you are,” Annatar replied. “Anyone who makes a living as a sea captain gambles every time he sets foot on the deck. My brother Ossë is remarkably fickle. I’ve watched him capsize a ship merely because he felt queasy from eating a bad oyster.”  
  
Amandil scratched his nose thoughtfully. Of course Annatar was a Maia, as powerful as Ossë, the being that ruled so much of his life, the one he attempted to appease with an oiolairë branch tied to the prow of his boat and with gifts left in rocky caves by the shore. He prided himself on logical thinking and yet when it came to the capriciousness of Ossë, he was as superstitious as the Haradrim. Annatar was just as powerful, perhaps more so, than Ossë. Amandil could sense the veiled power beside him as clearly as one could feel the heat of a bonfire. He must never forget what Annatar was. Never. “I did not know that Ossë was your brother,” Amandil said.  
  
“All of us Maiar are kin, born before the Song,” Annatar said. “You trust in what you think you know, that I am your enemy because I allied myself with Melkor and that the Lord Ossë is your friend because he chose to forsake that same allegiance. But know, O men of Númenor, Ossë and I are more alike than you might suppose. Would you be surprised to learn that in the end I also renounced Melkor?”  
  
“So, I have heard,” Amandil replied, “but if you truly repented it is strange that you continue to ape his ways. I never believed you were sincere in renouncing him.”  
  
“Didn’t you? But you trust my brother? Is it Ossë the Repentant who conjures a storm that ravages your vessel? Or Ossë, the Fickle? Do you not gamble on his good will? And yet whether or not he destroys your livelihood may well turn upon a spoiled oyster.”  
  
Amandil could feel his ire rising. “So all you have proven is that the Maiar are capricious and not to be trusted.”  
  
“Oh, are the Valar any better?” Annatar said contemptuously. “What about Lord Manwë’s penchant for blowing up a storm that can destroy your whole fleet? I daresay all the prayers and gyrations of your Bawîba Manô priests have done little to placate his whims.”  
  
“It is not for us to understand what drives Lord Manwë’s moods,” Amandil sniffed. “Perhaps such storms have a greater purpose than we can know.”  
  
“Just keep telling yourself that as you float about amidst the wreckage,” Annatar said.  
  
“Is there anyone here who can shut him up?” Amandil said to the air.  
  
“My Lord Aphanuzîr, did you have need of us?” one of the guardsmen behind them called.  
  
Annatar chuckled. “The resort of one who hears an unwanted truth, stuffing his fingers in his ears. I am simply trying to explain that your perception of the truth might be flawed. I may not be your enemy. In fact, I could be your friend at need.”  
  
Azgarad moved his horse closer. “If you want us to think better of you, Annatar, you’ll have to prove yourself,” he growled. “So, this little scheme of yours had better work. I warn you that if you are dealing double with my King, I’ll slice you up and feed you to the dogs.”  
  
“You’d like to see me become dogmeat, wouldn’t you both?”Annatar said. “You are secure in your knowledge that your ways are right and mine are wrong. In time, you will find that sentiment misguided. Any powerful nation is beset by enemies, the Haradrim are merely one case in point. You want Númenor to be the most powerful force in Endórë? I have the knowledge to help achieve that goal that could benefit you both. I am at your service, for now. Use me.”  
  
Azgarad was quiet. Amandil could almost hear the wheels turning in the Steward’s head. Cool and calculating, Azgarad was a lord of vast amounts of land in his own right, loyal to the King, and fierce in dealing with any threat to his beloved country. And whereas Amandil wished to return to the splendor that Númenor had been, a center of learning and wisdom, Azgarad had his eyes on a grander future. In council meetings, he often pointed out that their island was finite with a growing population, particularly of immigrant Umbarians, and that they had mined out the iron and copper as well as much of the timber. ‘These weaknesses threaten our security,’ he’d said. Consequently, he had supported the King’s offensive against the Haradrim last year, which Amandil had opposed. Azgarad wasn’t interested in revenge against the Haradrim for capturing Umbarian citizens. He wanted control over their lands.  
  
“Enough of this,” Amandil said. “We must focus on the task at hand. Where is this tunnel you spoke of? I see nothing.”  
  
“Near. Very near. In fact . . .” Abruptly, Annatar halted his horse, leaning forward and peering ahead into the darkness. “Bring up a torch,” he commanded. One of the torch bearers rode up. His flaming brand delineated the walls of a stone bridge arching over the river. “Perfect,” Annatar said in a pleased tone. “That’s the way to one of the tunnels that comes out on the south side of the pass and over here to the right is the other one towards the north. That’s the way we need to go.” He touched his heels to his horse’s sides and sped off towards a thick grove of willow trees, disappearing into the thicket as if he’d been swallowed up.  
  
“By Angband’s pits! Don’t lose him!” Azgarad cried. They all pelted into the grove. Nearly blinded by snapping twigs, they emerged suddenly into a clearing and stopped short as they saw a large black opening in the side of the cliff that had been completely screened from the main road by the willows.  
  
“Did he go in there?” Amandil asked.  
  
“Must have,” Azgarad snarled. “I fear trickery. Hurry! We must catch the conniving little beast.” They surged down the long slope towards the yawning entrance.  
  
* * * *  
  
Nibanuzîr, the King’s head of household was not at all pleased to be awakened. He rubbed his eyes with pudgy fingers and blinked at Sûla. “What a time for the Haradrim to attack,” he moaned.  
  
“We have little control over their timing,” Sûla said. “The King bids us make haste.”  
  
“Ah yes, well Sûla, this is a lot to do in little time. Would you go down to the healers’ area and alert them? We’ll get it done more quickly that way. I’ll take charge of moving the rest of the household.”  
  
“As you command.” Sûla bowed. He mounted his black courser, a gift of the King, and headed towards the healers’ encampment. With some trepidation, he passed by Yanak’s tent, wondering what had become of his wife, Zôri. Just as he thought of her, he noticed a figure huddled by the fire in the clearing. As he approached, she looked up, frowning, and tugged on her ear as if it bothered her. “King’s whore,” she hissed.  
  
Sûla stiffened at the insult. There was something strange about her. “Zôri, we’re being attacked. You must go up there.” He pointed at the high ridge in the distance.  
  
“He has touched you,” Zôri cackled. “I can see it glowing like a wheel of fire in your breast. We are alike in that way, you and I.”  
  
“What?” Sûla halted completely and dismounted. “What?” he said again. “Banâth, get up off your arse. We’re being attacked!”  
  
“Attacked from within and without,” Zôri said. “We are doomed, mîki.” She made the sign against evil.  
  
Yanak, his mustache drooping sadly, staggered from the tent and took her by the arm. “Forgive her,” he said, his words slurring. “She hash taken a bad turn and dush not know what she’s shaying.”  
  
“Well, keep her quiet,” Sûla snapped. He turned to the gathering crowd and cried, “By order of the King, everyone here must store their belongings in their wains, take sufficient blankets and food and retreat to the top of that hill for safety.”  
  
“What? We mush leave ina middle o’ night?” Yanak asked, his words echoed by a chorus of questions all around.  
  
“We’re being attacked by the Haradrim,” Sûla said. “These are the King’s orders. It is worth anyone’s life to disobey. Hurry.”  
  
The crowd scattered.  
  
“Come along, Zôri,” Yanak called over his shoulder as he headed towards the picket lines to get their horse.  
  
“You are ensnared, King’s whore,” Zôri cackled.  
  
“Are you mad? How dare you insult me!” Sûla cried. “Go along with you.” He shoved her in the direction her husband had gone.  
  
She shook her head vigorously. “I cannot. Your master has destroyed my peace of mind.”  
  
“The King? What has he done?” Sûla asked.  
  
“Not that master,” Zôri said and grinned. In the silvered moonlight, her face looked drawn, almost skeletal.  
  
Fear shivered Sûla’s bowels. He grabbed Zôri’s arm. “Shut your mouth, woman,” he hissed, “or by Zizzûn, something bad will happen to you.”  
  
“Something bad already has,” she moaned, frantically tugging her ear. “It’s him, his voice. Make it stop.”  
  
“Zôri!” Yanak called as he unclipped the picket line. “Come help me!”  
  
“I swear to you,” Sûla hissed under his breath to Zôri, “if you betray me, you’ll be burned alive. I’ll see to it.”  
  
“You think your Master will protect you, but he will not,” Zôri said. “I’m going to find him now and finish the task I started. You’ll thank me later.”  
  
Suddenly she jerked the reins from Sûla’s hands, and before he could react, she hauled herself up onto his horse. “No, stop!” Sûla cried, making a grab for her legs. But with a flurry of skirts, she settled onto the horse’s back, jerking the beast’s head around and kicking him so hard, he squealed and half-reared, causing Sûla to leap back. Zôri galloped off into the night.  
  
“Hai, she’s taken my horse!” Sûla yelled.  
  
“Where’s she going?” Yanak called, as he lifted a bridle hanging from a tree and dropped it with a clink of metal. His chestnut snorted, tossing his head.  
  
Sûla ran over to him, setting his hand on the horse’s smooth muscular neck. “I don’t know,” he said, “but she’s like to do some mischief. Give me your horse.”  
  
“No need. I’ll go after my wife,” Yanak said. He picked up the bridle and began fumbling with it, trying to straighten it out.  
  
“You’re drunk!” Sûla declared. He wrenched the bridle away from the surgeon, and holding it by the headstall, pressed the bit into the horse’s mouth, and settled the headstall about its ears, buckled the cheek strap, then threw the reins over its head. “Give me a leg up,” he called and Yanak bent, cupping his hands to allow Sûla to step into them and vault onto the horse’s broad back.  
  
The force of Sûla’s leap caused Yanak to fall over onto his backside, where he wallowed ineffectively. “Wait, I’m coming too,” he said as he attempted to stagger to his feet.  
  
Cursing every moment of delay, Sûla called, “No! Go with the others. I’ll find her.” He drummed his heels against the chestnut’s side and they galloped past a confused mass of people and wains, who looked up as he thundered by heading towards the Pass.  
  
* * * *  
  
As they neared the entrance to the cave, Amandil could see movement, and then he heard a sudden squeal from a horse. Horse and rider, barely visible as black against blackness, emerged from the cave. They wheeled about as if the rider were fighting the horse, facing the entrance again. The horse shook his head with a low grunt, moved forward, then stopped short again.  
  
“That’s Annatar,” Azgarad said. “By Mandos, what is he doing?”  
  
“Frankly, I’m at a loss,” Amandil said. “It looks like his horse won’t enter the cave. We should approach cautiously.”  
  
The tall spiked helmet turned toward them and Amandil could see the gleam of the eyes. The company drew near enough to see that the horse’s nostrils were flared and his ears laid back.  
  
“It took you long enough to get here,” Annatar said smoothly, but Amandil detected a strange wavering note in his voice as if he were as frightened as his horse. He was breathing heavily. Amandil’s horse seemed to have picked up on it, dancing sideways.  
  
“What do you mean by charging off like that?” Azgarad roared. “By the Valar, I should have your head.”  
  
“But you will not,” Annatar said, seemingly recovering his composure. “I’ve led you here as promised and was awaiting the torchbearers. It’s quite dark in there, even for my eyes.” He took a deep breath and then urged his horse forward again. “Well, are you coming?”  
  
Amandil and Azgarad looked at each other. “Light the rest of the torches,” Azgarad directed, holding out his own torch to be lit. You and you, stay here. If all is clear, we’ll send a messenger back out here to go to the King. It will be your task to go back to the path and direct his force to the entrance here. The rest of you, follow me.”  
  
Led by two warriors carrying flickering torches, Azgarad and Amandil flanked Annatar, followed by the rest of the sortie. They reached the cave entrance. Annatar stopped and clenched his teeth.  
  
“What is wrong with you?” Azgarad demanded.  
  
“Nothing. At all,” Annatar hissed. Biting his lip, he kicked his horse forward and they plunged into the cave. For a time they descended an incline. High above them they heard the twittering of bats. A cloud of them appeared, wheeling around the Zigûr. Several perched on his shoulders, crawling with little claws. He made a high pitched chirping noise and they took off again.  
  
Amandil ducked. “I hate bats,” he said. “But they seem to like you.”  
  
“Yes,” Annatar said. “I was one of them once.”  
  
Amandil shivered at the idea. The air felt heavy, cold and clammy with a smell of wet clay. The path seemed to have been planed smooth and their horses had little trouble descending. Nevertheless, Amandil could feel his horse’s nervousness. Soon the tunnel leveled out. They emerged into a vast room and Amandil’s breath caught at the sight. It was filled with immense columns of stone twisted in strange bestial forms. From the ceiling hung stone daggers and more erupted from the floor. It was as if the gods had been building castles by dribbling bits of wet sand. The path headed straight through this mineral wilderness.  
  
“It’s like a city,” Amandil marveled, waving his torch about.  
                                          
“Look up,” Annatar said.  
  
Heads craned upward and then all around him Amandil heard the men gasping in wonder. The ceiling glittered with crystals that danced in the torchlight like morning sunlight on a field of new-fallen snow. He could see more of them coating the stone columns, and here and there were sheets of nearly transparent stone, falling like curtains. “It’s magnificent,” he heard one of the warriors say.  
  
“You never told us the caves were filled with marvels,” Amandil said. “What causes this?”  
  
“Little motions that add up with time,” Annatar said, “Rainwater seeps down from the surface, passing through soil and rock. I believe the water must carry with it minerals, which it leaves behind as it travels. Here, you see the results of that steady drip, drip, drip where it descends from the roof of the cave, splashing upon the floor.” He waved at what appeared to be a field of needles emerging from the ground. “Slowly, ever so slowly, the drips build one upon another, until they join together to form these immense structures. There are other wonders in here: chambers in which bundles of delicate stone straws descend from the ceiling, waving at the lightest touch, and deep pools filled with fish and other strange creatures that have lost their eyes from living in perpetual darkness. It’s extraordinary! Long did I study here.”  
  
His voice resounded with a childlike wonder that caused Amandil to look at him. Annatar had his head tilted back as he stared up at the crystalline cave overhead. By Mandos, he was a study in contrasts. The spiked helm and black armor made him appear like a vicious orc, except for that youthfully smooth chin and almost feminine lips. His slender body moved fluidly with the horse’s stride. Amandil reminded himself that this was a fiend, allied with the Great Enemy, responsible for countless deaths, but yet he seemed genuinely enthralled by the cave’s eerie beauty. Suddenly Amandil realized that he was feeling some grudging respect for the Maia. His uneasiness grew.  
  
“I had no idea you had made a study of this,” Amandil said.  
  
“I like to know how things work,” Annatar replied. “I’m convinced that it must have taken many millennia to create this effect.  Middle-earth is older than the stories say.”  
  
“Don’t let the Bawîba Manô priests hear you talk like that,” Azgarad grunted. “I see you cleared a path through here.” He indicated places where the stone had been hacked and leveled.  
  
“Sadly, my appreciation for the beauty was tempered by necessity,” Annatar said. “I ordered them to disturb it as little as possible but orcs are not known for their sensitivity.”  
  
Amandil chuckled.  
  
“Time grows short. When do we reach the other side?” Azgarad said.  
  
“Soon. We are almost there,” Annatar replied.  
  
They left the glittering chamber and entered a long twisty passage that eventually opened up into another large room. Several hundred yards distant, Amandil discerned the top of an opening through which he saw the deep cobalt blue of the moonlit sky. And there in the shadows, half-hidden by a tremendous stone column, sat two hulking platforms of wood on wheels. At their feet were piled many large clay balls.  
  
“Oh, look at that!” one of the warriors exclaimed.  
  
“Cod’s fins!” Amandil said softly.  
  
“And you did not believe me,” Annatar crowed. “If you had made that bet, Aphanuzîr, you would have lost.”  
  
* * * *  
  
Tigôn knew the orzini beer had gone to his head. Although still wary, his nervousness seemed to have fallen away. In fact, he felt unnaturally relaxed. The sound of the drums thrummed throughout his body, making his hands and feet move with the beat. He wanted to dance like the Haradrim warriors cavorting bare-chested in front of him, yipping, whirling, and leaping in a savage but strangely alluring fashion, but he didn’t trust the steadiness of his limbs. He tried to get up, staggered, and fell against Aksan, much to the laughter of some of the men nearby.  
  
“Númenórean men are weak,” Aksan asserted to all those present. “They can’t handle the power of orzini. You want to see, young messenger, why we are so fearless in war?”  
  
“Whah?” Tigôn said, sitting back down abruptly against the blanket. The remaining beer sloshed in the mug in his hand.  
  
“Korizar,” Aksan called, and the huge tattooed warrior separated from the group and stood before him. “Give me your knife,” Aksan commanded. Korizar pulled one of his knives from his belt and handed it to Aksan. “Watch.” Aksan took the knife and drew the point along one of Korizar’s mounded pectorals, leaving a thin bloody line that slowly began to drip. With a sudden motion, he shoved the knife through the top layer of skin and muscle, leaving it embedded in the warrior’s flesh. Tigôn swallowed hard to keep from screaming.  
  
Korizar didn’t even flinch; instead he laughed. “Look at the little messenger’s face, Aksan. He’s terrified.”  
  
Aksan grinned at Tigôn. “It doesn’t hurt,” Aksan said. He stroked along Korizar’s chest with one hand, painting lines with the dribbling blood. Then he grabbed the handle of the knife and jerked it free. Blood gushed and then slowed to a trickle that finally stopped as if sealed with pitch. “The orzini numbs the pain and makes the blood quickly stop flowing. Here, I’ll show you.” Aksan nodded at Korizar, who reached down, grasped Tigôn’s arm, and hauled him to his feet.  
  
“What are you doing?” Tigôn cried. He began to struggle.  
  
“Hold still,” Aksan said, pulling Tigôn’s arm straight and pushing up the sleeve. He placed the point of the knife on his forearm.  
  
Tigôn braced himself for the sting. But curiously, the knife wouldn’t bite into his flesh. Aksan swore and tried to press harder. Instead the knife seemed to glance off as if Tigôn’s arm were made of mithril. Both Korizar and Aksan’s eyes widened.  
  
“That happened before when I tried to cut him,” Korizar said. “I thought my hand had slipped.”  
  
“The Black Arts!” Aksan declared. He grasped Tigôn by the back of the neck and stared hard into his eyes. “You’ve been touched by the Zigûr!” he cried. Tigôn could smell the orzini on his breath.  
  
“No, I swear, he’s never touched me,” Tigôn choked. “I’ve never been close enough.”  
  
“Fool! It’s magic. He doesn’t need to touch your flesh for that.” Aksan flung Tigôn away from him. Then he spoke in Haradren. Korizar answered back angrily, gesturing at Tigôn. But Aksan took a step forward, speaking forcefully right in Korizar’s face, causing him to lower his eyes and then sink to his knees, head bowed. Aksan shouted an order to one of the nearby warriors.  
  
Tigôn’s head was swimming. Why hadn’t the knife cut him? Had he truly been ensorcelled? The dancers moved against the backdrop of firelight, like wild animals. The drums throbbed in his blood. He felt strangely numb amidst the tumult. One of the warriors appeared leading several horses, including his own.  
  
“You, Tigôn, son of Eärdur,” Aksan said. “It’s time. Take my message to the King. Tell him not to delay in delivering the Zigûr to us or we will fight to our last breath and a great many of your Númenórean King’s warriors will not return to your island in the sea.”  
  
Tigôn bowed slightly. “I will deliver your message. But if I were you, I’d give up the idea of freeing the Zigûr. It will only bring you trouble.”  
  
“Then, perhaps it would be wise on your King’s part to get rid of him,” Aksan smiled cruelly. He reached out and caressed Tigôn’s cheek. “Such a lovely skin you have, messenger,” he said. “It’s a shame it is impervious to the knife’s kiss. Lucky for you, you have the Zigûr’s protection. Go swiftly now. Korizar will guide you.”  
  
Tigôn resisted rubbing his cheek to remove the feeling of Aksan’s touch, which seemed to itch. Instead, he gathered his fluid limbs together as best he could, mounted his horse, and galloped after Korizar and two other Haradrim into the blackness of the night.  
  
The moon was floating high above them, nearly at its zenith, so bright that it cast vague shadows on the ground. Tigôn realized he had been at the Haradrim camp longer than he’d anticipated. There, time had seemed blurred. Now, as they approached the high cliffs that bordered either side of the pass, he heard the roar of the river in the distance. Relief surged through him. He had made it.  
  
At the mouth of the Pass, he spied the reflection of moonlight off metal, and shadowy figures on horseback. A clear voice called, “Who goes there?”  
  
“Answer him,” Korizar growled. He moved his horse right against Tigôn’s so that their legs crushed together.  
  
Tigôn shouted, “The King’s messenger. Bearing news.”  
  
“Who rides with you?”  
  
“Don’t answer,” Korizar said suddenly. He set a heavy hand on Tigôn’s shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Tigôn could see figures crawling through the grass that bordered the river bank.  
  
“Mas crag dun! It’s a trick!” Korizar growled at the other warriors, who lowered their spears. He brought a knife up to Tigôn’s neck. Tigôn felt the pressure but no pain and did not realize he’d been cut until a warm trickle slid down into his shirt collar.  
  
“Ah, seems your magic has run out,” Korizar gloated. “Tell them to back off or I’ll cut your sweet little throat.”  
  
Tigôn’s heart thudded in his chest. Trying not to move, he cried out, “Stop! Come no further. He’ll kill me!” High above them on the ridge, he saw line after line of shadowy shapes rise, drawing their bows. “Impasse, Korizar,” he choked against the pressure of the knife. “Let me go, and on my honor, I’ll prevent them from harming you.”  
  
“What honor do the Númenóreans have? You are my safeguard now,” Korizar said. “You’re coming with me. I never believed Aksan’s tactics would work.” He lowered his knife and then, with a quick jerk, he dragged Tigôn from his horse onto his own. Wrapping a powerful arm about Tigôn’s chest, he whirled his horse about. Tigôn heard the quick whizz-snick of an arrow that struck the ground behind them. Then another. Korizar’s horse squealed and he yanked its mouth to keep it still. The horses of other two warriors pivoted about.  
  
“Back off or I’ll kill your messenger,” Korizar shouted, again bringing the knife up to Tigôn’s throat. His words echoed back from the cliffs. Tigôn couldn’t even swallow because of the pressure of the knife. This is it, then, he thought. I’m finished. For some reason he couldn’t begin to fathom, he vividly imagined Sûla’s soft lips on his, while he felt helpless, unable to move.  
  
* * * *  
Aphanuzîr - Amandil’s canon Adûnaic name  
Nibanuzîr - an elfscribe invented Adûnaic name  
Zizzûn -  Master of Fate - a god of the peasants around Umbar and an elfscribe invention  
banâth - Adûnaic meaning wife. Sûla uses it here in the same way one might say Woman!  
orzini - elfscribe invented Haradren name for a drugged beer  
Mas crag dun - means ‘it’s a trick’ in elfscribe-invented Haradren.    


	14. The Demons of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While helping the Númenóreans prepare for war, Mairon (Sauron) encounters a major difficulty, and Sûla finds himself on the front lines of battle where his friend Tigôn is in danger of being killed by the Haradrim.

Upon entering the cave, Mairon felt an inexplicable terror, accompanied by a shortness of breath as if the darkness were smothering him. His horse sensed his fear, squealed and plunged, and refused to go a step further inside.  Mairon could not understand it. He had spent many days in these very caves and never had such a feeling before. He quite liked the enclosed, quiet dark within the bowels of the earth. Didn’t he?  Angrily, he shook it off and by the time the Númenórean lords, Azgarad and Aphanuzîr, appeared with the sortie, Mairon had managed to regain control, both of his horse and himself.  He led the company through the tunnels as if nothing were amiss.  But a worrying undercurrent seemed to radiate from the darkness. There had been a similar sensation in his dungeon at Barad-dûr when he’d gone to hide the Ring.  Was this some side effect of leaving it behind?  The Ring had warned him of this.  
  
It had not helped his peace of mind to wonder if his servants had carried out his orders. When he saw the huge wooden engines sitting there, as out of place amongst the delicate cave formations as a troll in a glass-blower’s workshop, Mairon felt better. The catapults were precisely where they should be.  Scaring his servants witless had its uses.   
  
Aphanuzîr and Azgarad stared at the engines, for once at a loss for words.  He knew they had both thought he was lying. Mairon’s lips quirked.  Judicious use of the truth was always disarming.  But their reactions were different.  Aphanuzîr seemed disappointed to find the engines there, while Azgarad’s eyes lit greedily. Mairon chuckled; his mood suddenly lightened.   
  
“Very well, then,” Azgarad said, dismounting and rubbing his hands together as he walked around the engines. “You Kardômel, go back the way we came and find the King. He should be marching in this direction. Tell him to divide his forces and send half here and the other half to the south side of the pass.  Tell him I recommend that Captain Nadroth take charge of the engines on the other side. He has experience with them.”  
  
“Aye, my Lord,” the man said and rode off.  They saw his torch glimmer and then disappear down the dark road.   
  
“How can we move the engines outside?” asked one of the torchbearers, a man named Nanikîr, with a closely-cropped beard and seed-like eyes.   
  
“I designed them to move fairly easily when pushed,” Mairon said. “My orcs backed them in here.  We can push them out.”  
  
“Let’s get to it,” Azgarad ordered.  “Dismount and tie up the horses. You lot go to the back and push and you others, pull the ropes in front. The rest push the wheels on the sides.”  
  
Moving the huge wooden platforms turned out to be easier said than done but under Mairon’s direction, amidst a terrible creaking and groaning, the two dozen men managed to push both catapults out into the foothills outside the tunnel. After the complete blackness of the caves, the moonlit sky seemed bright as noon and the feeling of oppression left Mairon completely. He felt exhilarated. Everything was going to plan. He directed the men to place the catapults side by side on the edge of a steep cliff where there would be a good trajectory out onto the dark plain beyond.     
  
“Where shall we point them?” one of the men called.     
  
Azgarad scanned the horizon.  He turned to Mairon. “Do you know where the Haradren encampment lies?”   
  
“How should I know?” Mairon said. “As you may recall, I’ve been shackled in a tent for the past week without the opportunity to scout for the whereabouts of enemies.”   
  
“Aren’t you able to scry for these things?” Aphanuzîr asked, focusing his intent gaze upon Mairon.   
  
“How much power do you think I have?” Mairon asked mildly.  
  
“Likely more than you are letting on,” Aphanuzîr replied.  He glanced at Azgarad.   
  
“We may have to send out scouts then,” Azgarad said. “An unfortunate delay.”  
  
Mairon chuckled. “It will be much quicker if I send out my own scouts.”  Their puzzled expressions amused him.  He climbed a small hillock, raised his shackled arms to the skies, and gave a high-pitched call, summoning the bats he’d spoken to earlier in the cave.  After a few minutes, one tiny bat appeared, lighting on his cloak, then another.  Then suddenly hundreds swooped down like a cloud of smoke, whirling and chattering all about him. He listened carefully to the hundreds of creaking voices and heard, “Master. Here we are. South, south, east, east, southeast, masked men, many, amassing, fight.” Sure enough, if he strained his eyes in that direction, he could make out the tiny flickering light of campfires.   
   
“My scouts say the Haradrim are encamped to the southeast,” Mairon said. “That way.” He pointed.    
  
Crouching and waving their hands against the hordes of bats, the men moved to readjust the catapult trajectory, rocking the machines forward and back. Moving them was made difficult by their proximity to the edge of the steep embankment.   
  
“Argh, get them off,” one of the men shouted as a bat knocked him in the head.     
  
“Thank you my brothers,” Mairon trilled at the bats. “Be off with you, now.”  With shrill chirps and chitters, the mass arose, spiraling, dispersing into the night air. Slowly, all the men straightened up and eyed Mairon suspiciously.   
  
“Quite a talent,” Aphanuzîr remarked dryly.     
  
“I told you, I am useful to have around,” Mairon replied, as he climbed back down the hillock.  
  
“That remains to be seen,” Aphanuzîr said. “Bats! I hate bats.” He grimaced.    
  
“So little faith, Aphanuzîr,” Mairon mocked. The King’s counselor faced him, cloak billowing slightly in the breeze, the visor of his helm pushed up to reveal his bright, hooded eyes, silvered beard, and skeptical expression.  A very strong personality there. Not easily manipulated. “Come, let me show you the projectiles.”  Mairon gestured at several of the men standing idly by. “Bring out some of those clay balls that were piled up back there.  Do not drop them, not if you want to see tomorrow.”  
  
One of the men returned, carrying a linen-covered ball about the size of a man’s head.  “This is my own design. Look,” Mairon said. Azgarad, Aphanuzîr and the others crowded around.  Mairon pulled aside part of the cloth. “These are hollow clay balls filled with a combustible mixture.  We light the cloth and then launch them, either one at a time or several together. When they hit, they explode with devastating effect. Boom!”  Mairon said and chuckled when the man holding the ball recoiled. “We’ll launch these from here and from the tunnel on the other side. Escaping from the onslaught will drive your enemies right into the men waiting at the pass.  Just like beating quail into the net.”   
  
Azgarad nodded. “A good strategy.”  
  
“I’m glad that these things are not aimed at us,” Aphanuzîr said.   
  
Mairon suppressed the smile that wanted to rise to his lips. Wait until they saw the power of his invention. “Come, I’ll show you how to crank the launch arm back and lock it,” he said.  He told two of the brawniest men to begin cranking the winch that wound a rope around a drum, slowly pulling down the arm. Azgarad stood nearby, admiring the locking mechanism that Mairon had devised to keep the winch from slipping back.  Ah yes, let the King's Steward see the value of his inventions. Already, Mairon could see the cogs turning in Azgarad’s mind.   
  
When they had winched the arm completely down, Mairon directed the men to slip the metal hook into an iron loop at the back of the bucket and unlatch the locking mechanism.  The arm was now kept in place solely by the hook attached to a rope that Mairon held in his hand. Mairon stood away to the side.  “It’s ready. One merely pulls this rope and it will release the arm. You must stand well clear because it can jump backwards.  Load it up.”  A nearby man picked up one of the clay missiles and loaded it into the wide spoon-like bucket on the end of the launch arm. The bomb slipped and he nearly dropped it.  There was a short gasp from several of the men.      
  
“Careful!” Lord Azgarad snapped.   
  
“Indeed,” Mairon said, “if you drop it, this whole place goes up.”   
   
“That is good to know,” called a woman’s voice from the mouth of the cave.    
  
The men’s heads all swiveled around. She stood in the moonlight, holding one of the clay bombs cradled in her arms like a baby.  Strands of hair like wisps of hay had escaped from the braid pinned across her head; her cheeks were streaked with dirt; and her eyes had the overly bright, staring look of madness. Mairon recognized her as the healer who’d tried to kill him.  He narrowed his eyes. “Zôri, isn’t it?” he said, pitching his voice for control. “What are you doing here?”  
  
* * * *   
  
Heart pounding, Sûla rode through the canyon, wondering what madness had possessed him.  The King had given him express orders to go with the household away from the battle and here he was heading right towards it, chasing an insane woman.  The horse he’d borrowed was a heavy draft animal that lumbered along despite Sûla’s best efforts to beat him into greater enthusiasm. His own horse, Cloud, which Zôri had stolen, was much faster. So, it was no wonder Sûla could neither see, nor hear her up ahead. What was she going to do?  Would she reveal his association with the Zigûr?  He had not known that Annatar’s magic would leave a mark on him that someone sensitive to it could detect.  It frightened the wits out of him.  He meant what he’d said to her.  If she betrayed him, he would make sure she burned too.   
  
The moon was nearly at its zenith.  Another source of worry. Was Tigôn safe?  Sûla passed a stone bridge that led over the river. He pulled the horse to a halt and looked around. By Zizzûn’s pisspot! Had Zôri taken the route over the bridge or had she gone on straight ahead? He squinted.  There was a faint path to the north as well. Maybe he had the ability to sense her in the way that he could sense Tigôn. He stretched out his energies as Annatar had taught him and felt nothing, but when he faced the main road again, he caught something distant, a flash of panic. He had a brief image of a knife being sliced along an arm. Was that Tigôn’s arm? It looked like the green cloth of his sleeve.  He wavered. Maybe he should go after him.  Oh, but what would he say to the King?  Would he be beaten for his disobedience? Cast out of the King’s household to fend for himself?  He didn’t think the King would get rid of him for such an offense, but it was a risk. Well, he was already in trouble. As they said in his village, if you’re cutting bait, you may as well fish for shark as sardines.   
  
Sûla kicked the horse into a canter.  Shortly, the canyon widened and he rode smack into a group of riders sitting quietly on their horses.  
  
“Halt,” one shouted. “Who are you?”  
  
“A messenger from the King,” Sûla replied, thinking quickly. “The other messenger is overdue.  He sent me to find out why.”  
  
“Come closer, let me see your face,” the man called.    
  
Sûla approached the small group of warriors and recognized Hazûn, who had been the first to encounter Lord Annatar and had narrowly escaped becoming his second victim. “Hail Hazûn,” Sûla said.  “Have you heard aught of the messenger’s fate?”  
  
“Nay, we are wondering ourselves if something has gone amiss,” Hazûn said.    
  
“I can’t return to the King with no news,” Sûla replied.  “He needs information to decide his next course of action.”  
  
“I’ll escort you to the mouth of the pass,” Hazûn said. “Perhaps we’ll hear something there. I have it, lads,” he addressed the others.     
  
A league further down the road, they found themselves threading through dozens of warriors, some on horseback, some afoot with their great yew bows. Men were shouting directions.  Sûla saw tall Lord Nimruzîr, wearing a silver helm, waving men past him to swarm up paths into the hills on either side of the road. Ah yes, he remembered that Lord Aphanuzîr had tasked his son with placing the archers at the top of the pass. Quietly Sûla rode by with Hazûn at his side. He would prefer that Nimruzîr didn’t notice him. There would be questions. They reached an area where the canyon walls of the pass gave way, revealing the wide plains beyond. “Here we are,” Hazûn said. “I cannot see anything, can you?”  
  
“No,” Sûla said.  “We should wait.”  
  
Then high above them someone called, “Lord Nimruzîr, there is a small group approaching in the distance.”  
  
“Get in position,” Nimruzîr barked in his sea captain’s voice. “You there, you six, go hide in the tall grass on the plain so you can take them down if necessary. Go!”  
  
Sûla and Hazûn slid off their horses, handing them to some men.  They followed four bowmen out along the road, hearing the river purling in the distance, and sank down into the long grass along the high banks. What am I doing here? Sûla thought.  I don’t even have a weapon. For what seemed like a long time, he lay still, barely breathing, the dry grass tickling underneath him.  Distantly, through the ground, he felt the rumble of approaching hooves. Four riders thundered out of the darkness of the night, drawing close. Sûla could descry Haradren warriors, their faces nearly covered by scarves.   
  
From the hill above, a strident voice called, “Halt, men of the Harad!”   
  
The Haradrim reined their horses in abruptly, leaning back, and skidding to a halt.  One of the riders was smaller, wearing Númenórean dress, curly hair. Yes, that must be Tigôn. Sûla’s heart began to thud. He rose up on his forearms straining to see and hear.   
  
“State your errand!” the herald called from above them.    
  
“I am the King’s messenger, bringing news,” Tigôn called out in a raspy voice.    
  
“Something isn’t right here,” Hazûn whispered to the men around them, “The messenger should be riding away from the others. Yet they appear to be crowding him. Let’s move in closer.”  They began crawling though the grass.    
  
The Haradren rider closest to Tigôn growled something and a knife flashed in the moonlight as he leaned over, swiftly bringing it to Tigôn’s throat. The other warriors lowered their spears. Tigôn cried out, “Stop, come no further!  They’ll kill me!”  
  
Sûla and the others stopped crawling.  Suddenly, the huge warrior sitting on the horse nearest Tigôn, dragged him off his horse onto his own.  Sûla gasped.  Not good. What could he do against four trained Haradren warriors?  An arrow zipped down from high above them, then another shot by Hazûn in an attempt to keep the Haradrim from fleeing. Their horses danced as if they might charge off at any moment.  Sûla could feel his heart hammering. Then it came to him.  “Hazûn,” he whispered, “Let me talk to them, I can speak Haradren.”  
  
“They will skewer you,” Hazûn whispered.  
  
“I’ll find out what they want,” Sûla said, and without waiting for permission, slowly he stood.  It was probably the bravest thing he’d ever done in his life.  
  
* * * *   
“Where did she come from?” Azgarad said, as he warily eyed the woman standing several yards away, clutching a deadly weapon in her arms.   
  
“I don’t know,” said one of the men.  “I turned around and there she was.”  
  
“I come from the coast where my family has been eaten by crows,” Zôri said.  She slowly advanced, her eyes locked on Mairon. “You men do not have eyes in your hearts.  If you did, you would know that there is a snake in your midst.  You are allowing him to wriggle and squirm his way into your souls. I am a healer and this is the cure.”  She lifted the bomb in her hands.   
  
“Zôri, you are not well. You must go back to the camp,” Mairon said with soft menace.  Still holding the catapult’s release string, he took a step backwards, feeling trapped between the side of the great engine and the dark ravine behind him. Inwardly he seethed.  Why was she resisting his spell?  She must have a stronger will than he'd thought.  He did not want to reveal any more of his power to the King’s men, not if he could help it, but a firebomb could put a serious dent in his plans.  Well, he was done playing with this one.  
  
“Banâth,” Azgarad said, “put the thing down and we’ll take you back to your husband.”  Two of the men moved towards her.  
  
“Nay!” she cried.  “You will not take my revenge away from me.  Do you all know what the Black One did?  What he will do? Oh, but you dinna take a woman seriously, do you?  You only see your engines of death and your schemes and your dreams of conquest! Here,” she raised the bomb slightly, “now you will get a taste of your own medicine.”    
  
“All of you, into the cave!” Aphanuzîr cried. The men hastened to obey him. Azgarad hesitated.   
  
“Do as he says.  I’ll deal with her,” Mairon snapped, using a tone of Command.  The men ran like conies, disappearing within the mouth of the cave. Aphanuzîr hung back at the entrance, as if weighing what to do.   
  
“Very well, you wish to challenge me,” Mairon said, turning his full gaze on the annoying creature.  “Come closer and see if you have the strength of mind to do it. You do know that if you drop that, you’ll only succeed in killing yourself.  I am immortal.”  
  
“Aye. But I daresay, you’ll miss that pretty face,” Zôri smirked.   
  
“Come closer, then,” Mairon said. “I dare you.” She stared at him with those glazed eyes. Now she seemed unsure but was complying anyway. A step, then another one.  Closer. She was almost there, clutching the bomb to her chest, and now she looked down at it.  Another step.  Bull’s eye.  
  
And Mairon yanked the rope.  
  
With tremendous force, the catapult arm snapped forward and the whole platform recoiled backward on its wheels, striking Zôri hard and sending her flying off the cliff. A tremendous explosion rocked the ground and a ball of flame roared upwards from the darkness below.     
  
Mairon felt a cold satisfaction.  Not since Lúthien had bested Morgoth had a woman attempted to challenge him.  So much for that.  He brushed off his hands.  
  
Aphanuzîr came pounding over, carrying a torch in his hands, followed closely by Azgarad and several of the other men.  They paused at the edge of the embankment and looked down in horror at the flames crackling below them. “Valar!” Aphanuzîr cried. “Quick, grab the torch, Nanikîr, and we’ll lower you down there to see if she survived.”  
  
“Unlikely,” Mairon said. “If the fall didn’t kill her, the explosion surely did.  I told you the machine had a kick.”  
  
“Shut up!” Aphanuzîr snarled. “You and you! Hurry!”  Several men grabbed a length of rope and lowered the man down off the side of the cliff face.  He panned a torch back and forth. “I see nothing,” he called up, “just the fire.”   
  
“We’re bringing you back up,” Aphanuzîr called.  He turned and directed a glare at Mairon.  
  
“Why are you angry?” Mairon challenged, striding forward and standing toe to toe with the King’s counselor.  “She nearly destroyed the whole operation.  Many Númenórean lives depend on this. You should be thanking me for dealing with the problem so neatly.”  
  
“You might at least show some remorse.  But then, look who I’m talking to,” Aphanuzîr said.  
  
Mairon snorted.  “Casualties are expected in war, Captain Aphanuzîr.  We have no time for sentiment. If you like, I’ll cry about it later.  Now, we need to continue the operation, don’t you think? Lord Azgarad?”  
  
Azgarad nodded.  “Bring out some more of the bombs,” he ordered. “And have a care with them!  We’ve seen what they can do.”  
  
Shaken and subdued, the men went about their tasks.  Why should the loss of one madwoman trouble them? Mairon mused. They were about to unleash the demons of war upon thousands of Haradrim.    
    
* * * *  
  
“Hold,” Sûla called out in Haradren. “We mean you no harm. What is the message for the Númenórean King?”  
  
The Haradren warrior, intimidating with his huge size and facial tattoos, towering above him on his great horse, turned to face Sûla, “Who are you?”  
  
“My name is Sûla.  I was raised near your country. We have been awaiting the news from your leader.”  
  
“Why have you ambushed us?” the warrior growled. “Tell them to back away!”  
  
“No, not an ambush,” Sûla said with as much scorn as he could muster. “A greeting party. Have you forgotten that the law holds a messenger sacred? Release him now and no harm shall come to you.”  There was a poignant silence.  Then Sûla spat on the ground.  “Have you no honor?  What is your name?”  
  
“Korizar of the Black Serpent People,” came the deep voice. “And it is the Númenóreans who have no honor.”    
  
That was the key, the man’s name!  In the blue moonlight, he could discern the warrior gripping Tigôn about the chest, holding the knife to his throat.  The other warriors’ spears were lowered, pointed directly at him. Sûla swallowed hard.  He had a plan, if only Tigôn had enough wits to cooperate.  “Tigôn, rats in the hole, all gone to ground,” he said in Adûnaic. “Be ready.”  
  
“What?” he heard Tigôn gasp.       
  
“Come no closer,” Korizar rumbled. “I will kill him and then all of you!”  
   
Sûla heard a strange roaring sound and looked up in time to see a ball of flame with a long tail arching high overhead. It appeared to fall almost straight down, crashing in the distance with an explosion of fire.   
  
“Ai! Númenórean dogs!” Korizar yelled and wheeled his horse about.       
  
At the same moment Sûla cried out, “Korizar!” Then, standing tall with fists raised, he spoke the words of power that Annatar had taught him. The magic howled through him, and roaring like a serpent, poured out as a sudden blast of wind. With a scream, Korizar’s horse reared, dumping both its riders, and galloped off. Korizar landed on the ground and lay unmoving as if turned to stone. Tigôn rolled away and then leapt up and ran towards Sûla as if a warg was on his tail. The other Haradren warriors yelled and charged. “Run Tigôn!” Sûla called over his shoulder as he pelted back towards the pass. He heard Hazûn shout, “Shoot the enemy!  Shoot them!”     
  
Arrows began whistling down. Sûla heard a scream. Turning, he saw Tigôn go down.  No! Sûla ran back, grabbed Tigôn’s arm, and hauled him up.  No arrows protruded from his back. “You’re fine,” Sûla gasped. “Fool! Get up and run!”   
  
Arrows nipping at their heels, they gained the safety of the pass where they halted, panting heavily. Mounted warriors rushed past them, spears lowered. They could hear the clash of weapons in the distance. Another fireball screamed by, landing with a boom somewhere in the dark.   
  
Hazûn said, “By the Valar! Where are they coming from?”   
  
Tigôn whirled on Sûla. “What are you doing here?”   
  
“Rescuing you, you pinhead,” Sûla said.  
  
Tigôn’s eyes were round, haunted.  “How? What did you . . .”    
  
Sûla cried, “Tigôn, you’re bleeding! There on your neck!”  Pulling a cotton scarf from his own neck, he pressed it to Tigôn’s wound.  The page’s skin felt hot and the pulse in his neck throbbed against Sûla’s hand.   
  
“I am?” Tigôn said, sounding dazed. He pushed Sûla away, looked at the blood on the scarf in his hand, and then doubled over and was sick on the ground.    
  
Sûla held his shoulders. “Gah, what were you drinking? It looks black.”  
  
“Beer,” Tigôn choked.  “Some kind of drug . . . .” He coughed violently.  
   
“Here, let me.  Don’t worry, it’s not deep,” Sûla said, pressing the scarf back to Tigôn’s neck. He helped Tigôn stand, wrapped the scarf once around and tied it loosely enough that he could still talk.   
  
“I can’t feel the wound at all,” Tigôn said helplessly, patting at the bandage. “Ach!” He made a face and spat on the ground.       
  
“Orzini has that effect. Get him some water,” Sûla called to Hazûn who stood nearby.    
  
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Tigôn reached for the proffered canteen. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Forgive me.  I drank too much of the stuff.”  
  
“Ah, so you were enjoying yourself at a party all this time.” Sûla laughed. “I might have known.”  He patted Tigôn’s arm in a friendly manner.  By Zizzûn, it was good to see him alive.  But Tigôn gave him a hard look and shrank away.  Tilting back his head, he drank thirstily.   
  
The burly Lord Rothîbal pushed through the crowd. “Well done, messenger,” he said in his comically high voice.  “We need to send you on to the King.” He gestured. “Get him his horse.”  He paused, looking at Tigôn’s pale face. “Are you fit to travel?”  
  
“Yes,” Tigôn grimaced. He took another gulp of water.  A man led up his horse. Tigôn made an attempt to mount and fell back. “Someone, help me up,” he said in a defeated tone.   
  
Sûla gave Tigôn a leg up. “I’ll accompany him,” Sûla said to Rothîbal, “to make certain he doesn’t get lost. Zizz! Look at that!”  
  
They all looked up as another fireball arched overhead.    
  
Awestruck, Sûla said, “It looks as if the Zigûr found his catapults.”   
  
“Ha, excellent,” Lord Rothîbal chuckled.  “A secret weapon.  That will put the fear of Númenor in these Haradren rats.”     
  
Tigôn shook his head tiredly. “I fear my message will come too late. Nevertheless, I intend to finish my task.”  Without even a backward look at Sûla, he set off at a trot and swiftly moved into a gallop.  Sûla barely had the time to mount the healer’s borrowed horse and follow.      
  
“Hai, slow down,” Sûla called when they had cleared the knots of warriors and were alone on the road.  “Tigôn!”  
  
Tigôn slowed his horse to a walk, allowing Sûla to catch up and ride alongside.  Tigôn’s face was tense, his mouth pressed into an unhappy line. “What do you want?”   
  
Sûla lost his temper. “Curse you Tigôn! I saved your wretched skin back there.  Isn’t that worth a little courtesy?  How about ‘thank you, Sûla?’”   
  
“That’s the problem, Sûla,” Tigôn said angrily, looking him in the eyes for the first time. “I don’t know what you did back there.  What was that?”  
  
“I distracted that warrior who, as you may recall, was about to cut your throat. Then the fireball spooked the horse and he threw you.”   
  
“No, that’s not what happened.” Tigôn passed a hand over his mouth. “It’s been a terrible night but I haven’t completely lost my wits. You called out something. There was a sudden wind and fell voices in the air.  Just before we were thrown, I felt Korizar go rigid, like a marble statue. Explain it or I swear I’ll never speak to you again!”   
  
“I was captured by the Haradrim when I was young and learned some black magic from a serpent priest,” Sûla lied.    
  
Tigôn’s eyes narrowed. “You never told me this before.”  
  
“I expect there is much you don’t know about me.”    
  
“Some very strange things happened to me tonight,” Tigôn said. “I am very much wondering . . .”   
  
Sûla shifted, looking about to see if they were alone. “You won’t tell anyone what happened, will you? People at court hate me enough as it is.”  
  
“You appeared very adept at this ‘magic.’  Much more than I’d expect from a . . .”   
  
“From a what?” Sûla challenged. “From a whore?”  
  
“I didn’t say that,” Tigôn replied, looking uncomfortable.    
  
“No, but you were about to.”    
  
“We can talk about this later.  I am in haste,” Tigôn said, nudging his horse, but Sûla leaned over and grabbed a rein, bringing him up short.    
  
“You arsehole, you listen to me!” Sûla said. “I risked everything tonight because I suspected you might be in danger.  Most likely the King will punish me for disobeying his orders.  I’m supposed to be with the rest of his household way over there.”  He waved vaguely in the direction of their camp. “Who knows what will happen to me when he finds out.”  
  
“Maybe he won’t find out,” Tigôn said. “I won’t tell him, that’s for sure–as if anyone would believe me if I tried.”  
  
“Enough people saw me tonight who would recognize me,” Sûla said.   
  
“Then perhaps you had better hide until the army passes and you can sneak back to the camp,” Tigôn said.  “There’s going to be a terrible battle soon. You should not be in the way.”  
  
“That’s your answer, is it? Well, piss on you then!” Sûla cried. “I swear, I’m sorry I got you out of the mess you were in. Your hide would now be curing to become Korizar’s new cape if it hadn’t been for me!”  
  
“I don’t know how you helped me and I don’t want to know,” Tigôn said. “And now I’m late to deliver my message. I could be in trouble myself if I don’t move along. Leave me alone.”    
  
Tigôn wrested the rein back from Sûla’s hand and urged his horse into a canter. Seething, Sûla  restrained his own horse until he was out of sight.  Of all the reactions he’d thought Tigôn might have to being rescued, ingratitude wasn’t one of them. He'd thought they were friends. I should have known better, he said bitterly to himself. When has caring about someone ever served me?  Then with a start he remembered Zôri and the reason he was out here in the first place. Sweat pricked under his arms. Where in Ennor was she?  Had she betrayed him?  What if his association with the Zigûr became known?  He considered his situation.  Perhaps he should try to quietly slip back to camp and, hopefully, in the heat of battle, no one would notice.  Then he could think about his options.  The answer might lie with Annatar.  Yes, surely he would know what to do.  Another fireball flew along the horizon, looking like a falling star in the distance.  It was beautiful, but Sûla could imagine what it was doing among the Haradrim.  He could almost hear the screams.   
                          
*******  
Aphanuzîr is Amandil's canon Adûnaic name. Nimruzîr is Elendil.  
Banâth - means wife or woman.    
Kardômel,  Nanikîr - more elfscribe invented Adûnaic names.   
                       
A 13th century description of Greek fire like Mairon used:        
“This was the fashion of the Greek fire: it came on as broad in front as a vinegar cask, and the tail of fire that trailed behind it was as big as a great spear; and it made such a noise as it came, that it sounded like the thunder of heaven. It looked like a dragon flying through the air. Such a bright light did it cast, that one could see all over the camp as though it were day, by reason of the great mass of fire, and the brilliance of the light that it shed.”  
-from the Memoirs of Jean de Joinville, a 13th century nobleman.   
  



	15. The Road to Umbar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ar-Pharazôn displays Annatar as a prisoner of war during the army’s march through Umbar, much to Annatar's displeasure. Sûla worries that the King will punish him for disobeying orders, and Tigôn feels angry and confused about his feelings for his friend who just saved his life.

Tigôn ran, but the ground shifted and slipped like sand under his feet. Terrified, he looked back.  Behind him loomed the dragon, horned and immense, hurtling towards him in a strange swooping flight. Its breath roared into a swathe of flame that caught and blazed ahead of Tigôn like a bright road of horror.  Fire licked upward, becoming a tall Harad warrior, half naked with a muscular chest, tattoos squirming down the side of his face.  He laughed at Tigôn. “You are a poor excuse for a messenger,” he said, and drew a huge, bloody knife.  Tigôn fell at the Haradren man’s feet. “I’m the King’s sacrifice,” he cried. “I offer myself.”  
  
A sudden sharp pain sliced into his neck. Tigôn reached up to it, feeling something wet and his fingers came away red with blood.  I’m done for, he thought. But, as he was despairing, he noticed another hand with long, clever fingers, open and friendly, extended towards him. Tigôn looked up into laughing eyes, wickedly ringed with kohl.  “Take it, Tigôn, you know you want to,” the voice said.  Sûla.  Heat blushed upwards from Tigôn’s loins.  But he couldn’t reach up, couldn’t move, not a muscle. He was frozen.  Tender lips explored his own, the beautiful hand crept downward, cupping him, squeezing. He wanted to gasp, but could not. He was rigid, hard. Did he want this?   He didn’t know, but he did know something bad would happen as a result. The dragon! He’d forgotten about it and suddenly, there it was, huge, inexorable, opening its red maw to engulf him. Tigôn screamed!  
  
And awoke. Heart pounding, he lay rigidly in his soft furs, and then the events of last night gathered into sensibility.  It was all right.  He was safe. No dragon.  He patted the bandage around his throat, feeling the line of soreness, a reminder of mortality.  The dream swirled hazily in his head, still real at its feathered edges. It wasn’t the first time he’d had that dream or a variation of it. He felt . . . what did he feel?  Exhausted, like he wanted to sleep for days.  The wan light of early morning crept in through a gap at the doorway of the tent. The air felt warmer than it had in days past. Some birds quarreled in the distance, and faintly, he could smell smoke, probably from the battlefield.  
  
He wondered what time it was and whether or not anyone wanted him to run a message somewhere. Well, to bloody Mandos with them if they did!  Right now he was sick of it.  He realized that he was angry but couldn’t put his finger on why. No, now that he thought about it, he knew. It was Sûla. Something in the dream. Sûla had done something to him, without his permission. Tigôn rubbed his scratchy chin, trying to puzzle out all the weird things that had happened yesterday. There was the strange immunity to the knives that he’d had at the Haradrim camp that seemed to wear off suddenly when Korizar grabbed him. His gut curdled at the memory of the pressure of the knife at his throat, the sick realization that he was about to die . . . and strangely, the tender sensation of Sûla’s mouth on his. As incongruous as those feelings seemed, being held tightly by the odious Korizar, and being kissed, softly, sensuously, they seemed to go together.  He ran a finger over his lips. Why did he have the distinct feeling Sûla had kissed him?  That had never really happened except in his dreams of the past sennight. Had it?  
  
Gah! The idea disgusted him!  Why did that zirâmîki have to spoil their friendship with all his little comments, his suggestive innuendo?  For one thing, it was dangerous, given both their positions with the King.  And didn’t Sûla know that Tigôn was not like that?  Tigôn had certainly made it very clear that he had no interest in boys.  He’d kissed his cousin once, behind the stone wall on their estate at Eldalondë. She was pretty, petite, dark haired. He remembered the feeling of her small mouth following his so sweetly. He had liked kissing her, so that must mean he liked girls and not boys. Didn’t it? Somehow though, as much as he tried to bring her face into his minds’ eye, it kept shifting into Sûla’s face, with his curling ringlets the color of jet, his clear, golden skin, heavy-lidded eyes, and pouting mouth, as pretty as a girl, but definitely not a girl. Definitely.  
  
His father would not approve of his association with a zirâmîki.  It wasn’t that relationships between men weren’t unheard of, but they were not engaged in openly. It was considered disgraceful behavior, even though many of the lords knew the King himself had that penchant. When his family heard that Tigôn had received the appointment as a page in the King’s court, his older brother Zoganîr snickered and said, “Just don’t bend over anywhere near His Majesty,” for which he was sent to bed without supper.  
  
Tigôn had tried to avert his eyes from the King’s indiscretions, but it was so commonplace as to be impossible to ignore. He could see Sûla standing before him in the King’s bedroom, smiling suggestively, wearing crotchless trousers that required Tigôn’s eyes to go right there. How dare Sûla display himself like that! Tigôn curled in on himself, holding his morning-thickened cock tightly as if to keep it in check.    
  
Sûla had always frightened him a little. Tigôn simply did not know how to handle such unashamed sexuality, and last night their involvement had deepened, whether for good or ill, he could not say. He had learned something he wished he did not know: Sûla practiced black magic, quite adeptly. He’d turned Korizar to stone simply by saying some words. Magic was something Tigôn had heard about before but never actually seen. He’d thought it was just stories people told, but the cold, merciless fact of it had come leaping out last night, in such a way that he had to be grateful for it.  Was Sûla telling the truth about learning it from the Haradrim, or was it something more sinister than that? At a gut level, Tigôn suspected Annatar, although he had no evidence for it.  He knew he should report what had happened to Lord Elendil as soon as the battle was over and there was time. There was only one problem.  He was indebted to Sûla for saving his life.  Not an easy burden to carry.  Sûla was right to be mad at him. He had not been courteous last night, had not thanked him, and he felt ashamed of himself.  Sûla had risked much for him and might still pay the penalty, but somehow Tigôn couldn’t say the words. He was too angry. Was this the end of their friendship, of the companionable late nights playing bones? Why did everything need to be so complicated?  
   
And then there was what had happened with the King last night. Tigôn remembered riding along the road in the dark, still dazed at what had happened among the Haradrim, when suddenly he came upon a large company of warriors who were taking a path off the road towards a dense copse of willow trees.  “Where is the King?” Tigôn called, “Is the King among you?”  
  
“Yes, over there,” one of the warriors said, pointing. Tigôn recognized the King’s white horse and his winged helmet. A great sense of relief washed over him.  He hastened up.  “My Lord,” he called and bowed as best he could while sitting his horse. The King turned and his eyebrows rose.    
  
“Ah Tigôn,” he said.  “Good, you’ve returned.”  
  
“I bring a message from the Haradren encampment,” Tigôn said.  
  
“Yes,” Ar-Pharazôn replied, but he was watching the lines of marching men.  
  
“Sire, they demand that you deliver the Zigûr to them. That is all they want. If you do that, they will not attack.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn chuckled.  “It is just as Annatar said, then. I’m afraid their demand is unacceptable. We will reply with our swords.  Thank you, Tigôn. Your service has been noted.”  He waved his hand dismissively, then turned back towards directing the troops.  For a few moments Tigôn sat on his horse, exhausted and at a loss now that his duty was over, while the army poured around him as if he were a rock in the middle of a stream. He felt incensed that his dangerous mission, which had nearly killed him, did not seem to matter. If he had died out there, it would have been for nothing.  
  
And so Tigôn lay warm in his bed, while all these bits of memory and unsettled emotions swirled within.  Finally he sighed and turned over.  It was beyond his ability to reconcile any of it. At least he was alive. He listened for a moment. There was no commotion outside.  If no one was coming to demand his service, he figured he’d just sleep some more and avoid thinking–about anything.  By Aman, he’d earned it! The rest of the world could go piss themselves.  
  
* * * *  
Peering this way and that, a bleary-eyed Sûla emerged from his hiding place in the canyon, mounted his borrowed horse, and made his way back to the encampment.  There was some activity, people moving here and there. The surgeon’s quarter was still abandoned.  No doubt they were all sitting up in the hills, miserable, wondering if it was safe to come down. What in Arda had happened to Zôri and his own horse, Cloud?  It had seemed as if they had simply disappeared, like smoke.  
  
Sûla hobbled Yanak’s horse near the tent where he could eat some dried grass, gave the rough, muscular shoulder a pat, and considered his options.  He could take the horse and leave and try to make his way across the battlefield back to Brûni, his village. But why? To face his step-father again?  He would rather die first. Even a lashing would be preferable. But perhaps Ar-Pharazôn would not punish him too harshly. Sûla had saved the King’s page after all. He felt better at that idea. Maybe he should go back to Ar-Pharazôn’s tent and make himself exceptionally useful so that when the King came back weary from battle, Sûla could be seen in the best light. Once the King was relaxed, Sûla could say that he’d become lost and ended up at the pass.  It wasn’t a very good lie but he’d thought of all the variations and none of them were particularly good.  A straight-forward confession usually worked better with Ar-Pharazôn.  Then again, it might be best not to mention anything at all and hope that in the midst of the King’s concerns with the battle, it would go unnoticed. That was another possibility.  He’d have to play it by ear.  Right. So in any event, it was back to the King’s tent.  
  
Sûla went to the King’s provisioners where the cooks were busily working, and got meat pies and a cask of wine. “Hail Bildûn,” he said to the guard, who was slouching against the poles of the King’s massive tent.  The guard shifted, coming to attention for a moment and then relaxing again when he saw who it was.  
  
“Sûla. Is the household coming back?” Bildûn asked.  
  
“Soon, I expect. Have you heard aught about the fortunes of the battle?”  
  
“Nay,” Bidûn said.  He yawned.  “I’ve been here all night and would really like to see my replacement.  Are those meatpies I smell?”  
  
“Yes, fresh this morning.  Would you like one?”  Sûla lifted the cloth on the basket and the guard helped himself, stuffing the pie hungrily into his mouth.    
  
“What are you doing back here?” Bildûn mumbled around a mouthful.  
  
“I’m here to get things ready for the King’s return,” Sûla said brightly. “Let me pass, it’s been a long night.” Bildûn grunted and waved him in. Once inside, Sûla got the fire going in the brazier, poured the cask of wine into the brass cauldron, added honey, fragrant cinnamon, nutmeg, and dried lemon rind, and hung it from the hook to mull.    
  
While he worked, he thought about the events of the night, which naturally led him to Tigôn. The ungrateful wretch!  He was so angry, he wanted to spit at him. Or something. Would Tigôn tell anyone what he’d done?  Would he get in trouble because of it?  He’d tried to stay clear of any trouble, to stay true to the King.  Yet there was some part of him that simply longed . . . he couldn’t say for what exactly, but he knew it was bound up in Tigôn’s shy smile.  He sagged down on the cushions near the wine cauldron and ate a meatpie, which tasted wonderful. He realized it had been many hours since he’d eaten.  He relished another, then closed his eyes.  
  
********  
There was a commotion outside and Sûla jerked up from a nap he had not meant to take. He rubbed his eyes and stood up in time to greet a score of men entering the tent: soldiers, servants, pages, and then several of the King’s counselors, including Izindor, resplendent in silver-inlaid armor.  
  
Izindor’s pale eyes met Sûla’s. “Ah good, there’s wine,” Izindor said, and undulated over to him. When he drew close, his demeanor became vaguely threatening. “Still in the King’s good graces, I see,” he murmured, tapping Sûla’s dragon arm cuff. “Or did you spend my gold on that?”  Sûla said nothing, trying his best to veil his hatred. “No voice today?” Izindor continued. “I remember well the sound of your whimpers.” He smirked at Sûla, then looked up quickly as the King entered. “I’ll take some wine, Cupbearer,” he said.  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla replied, inwardly seething.  He wished they were alone so he could freeze the Lord from Arandor and do something vile to key pieces of his anatomy.  But he presented the cup with decorum, if not the proper deference.  
  
The King was laughing, seemingly in a good mood.  Sûla felt a surge of relief.  Maybe he would escape the beating after all.  Ar-Pharazôn drew off his winged helm and handed it to one of the servants.  He came toward them, and clapped Izindor on the shoulder, the force of which made Izindor take a step forward and grimace before schooling his expression.  “Not a bad night’s work,” Ar-Pharazôn was saying.  “It appears we’ve utterly annihilated them.”  
  
“Very successful, my Lord, a tribute to your leadership,” Izindor said, bowing with his strange, eel-like writhe.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn viewed him with distaste for a moment, then his glance landed on Sûla and he smiled. “Sûla! Back already!”  
  
“I’ve been here all morning awaiting your return, my Lord,” Sûla said, dipping up some wine and handing it to the King.    
  
“And you prepared a draught. Well done,” Ar-Pharazôn said and took a gulp. “By Manwë, that tastes good. What a night!”  
  
“Allow me, my Lord,” Sûla said, reaching up to unfasten the pin holding together the King fur-lined cloak.  As Sûla drew it off the King’s shoulders, he noticed blood on his sleeves.  
  
“Have the sword cleaned,” Ar-Pharazôn said, unbuckling it and handing it to Sûla.  Then, with a sigh, he sat heavily on his throne.  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  Sûla set the sword aside for the moment,  picked up the basket and presented the meatpies to the King.  “I fear they are no longer hot. I did not know when you would be returning.”  
  
“No matter.” Ar-Pharazôn selected one and bit into it. “Mmm, this is just the thing.” He waved at the gathered men. “Sit, all of you. We have planning to do.”  
  
“Is there news, your Majesty?” Izindor said in his unctuous voice, bowing again. “When I left the battlefield, they were rounding up the remaining Haradrim.”  
  
“Yes. Where is Annatar?”  
  
“He’s coming, my Lord,” said one of the guards, standing at the vestibule doorflap.  
  
Indeed, Sûla could feel Annatar’s presence before he even came into the tent.  It was as if a cloud of power preceded him. Sûla watched him enter, wearing his black armor and high spiked helm, surrounded by guards standing a wary distance away. Something was different; it was as if the veil covering Annatar’s power had thinned. The King’s gaze leapt eagerly toward him as all turned. Annatar lifted off his helmet, and the chains about his wrists clinked ominously, just before the burnished fall of fiery hair descended.  
  
“Ar-Pharazôn,” Annatar acknowledged the King with a quick, lizard-like dip of his head. He was followed by Councilor Aphanuzîr who looked tired and strained about the eyes. Sûla hastened to bring them both cups of wine.  When Annatar took the cup, he pressed Sûla’s fingers briefly with a leather-gloved hand and Sûla suppressed a gasp at the intensity of the magic he could feel crackling from him.  Something had ramped him up.  
   
Aphanuzîr bowed to the King and they all sat down.  
  
“Report, Aphanuzîr,” the King said.  
  
“The Steward has taken charge of the prisoners,” Aphanuzîr said. “They are being shackled in preparation for the march. What do you wish done with them?  
  
“They will go to slave pens in Umbar and be sorted into best use,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  “Most will go to the gold mines in the White Mountains.”  
  
“An excellent way to augment your gold holdings,” Izindor said. “I could help Azgarad with that. After all, I have disposed of Haradrim slaves in the past.”  
  
“I know,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “No. I need you to move your troops towards Umbar.”  
  
“When do you wish to start?” Aphanuzîr asked.  
  
“We’ll rest here for the night and then continue on to Umbar tomorrow,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  “We should reach there by nightfall.  How many casualties?”  
  
“Unknown at present.  I suspect they are minimal,” Aphanuzîr said.  “The wounded should be moved in wains since the healing houses are better equipped in Umbar.”  
  
“See to it,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  
  
“Yes,” Aphanuzîr said. “I should let you know about a particular casualty since it was a woman, a healer named Zôri. She was Yanak the surgeon’s wife.”     
  
Zôri! Sûla thought. So, she had shown up somewhere. He listened hard.            
  
“What happened?” Ar-Pharazôn asked.  
  
Annatar tossed his head, and the fiery locks almost seemed to hiss. “She got in the way of the catapult. Most unfortunate.”  
  
What? Sûla thought. Could this be true? Was she dead?  
  
Aphanuzîr eyed Annatar with distaste. “Yes it is unfortunate.  Someone should inform her husband.”  
  
“Strange,” Ar-Pharazôn replied. “Clearly there is more to this, but it can wait.” He hid a yawn. “Well done, all of you.  For certain, a good night’s work.  The Haradrim were utterly subdued by the engines.”  He turned to Annatar.  “I’m impressed with the power of your inventions, Annatar.  Your service to the realm has been noted.  I should like to employ your talents in creating more war engines as I doubt the Haradrim have been completely crushed.”  
  
“It would be my pleasure,” Annatar said, inclining his head.  He held up his hands. “Honor your promise to strike the chains free.  I have cramps in my arms.”  
  
“When we reach Umbar, I will do all that I promised,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “But trust is not won in one night.  You will ride in the wain through the streets of Umbar as a demonstration of the superior might of Númenor.”  He locked eyes with Annatar as if daring him to object.  
  
Annatar’s lips curled. “I see. You wish to impress your subjects with my capture.  Beware. My patience is not infinite.”  His voice held a veiled menace.  
  
“Do not threaten me,” Ar-Pharazôn growled. “If you wish to escape further pain at my hands.” He took a swallow of wine.  “That is all. You, Darîkil,” he indicated one of his pages with sable hair and a dimple in one cheek. “Go pass the word that we’ll be on the march at dawn tomorrow and I need Tigôn to inform Yanak about his wife. Where is he?” The King looked around.  
  
“No one has seen him yet, Your Majesty,” Darîkil said. “I’ll look for him in his tent.”  
  
“Do that,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “Annatar, the guards will take you back to your quarters.”  The King waved his hand in dismissal and all but a few servants departed.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn yawned, more widely this time. “Prepare me for bed, Sûla,” he said.  “It’s been a cursedly long night.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla replied.  
  
After he’d undressed and washed the King, Sûla knelt before him.  “Do you wish some ease?” he asked, thinking that might render the King sufficiently relaxed for him to make his confession.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn slid his thick fingers through Sûla’s hair, lifting it away from the scalp in a way that felt good. “Yes,” he said.  
  
Sûla parted the King’s robe, took the King’s flaccid organ into his mouth, licked it wet, and then plied his skills, up and down, so that it quickly swelled thick and hard. It seemed to take longer than usual but when finally Sûla succeeded in bringing him off, Ar-Pharazôn heaved a great sigh. “That was good. Come,” he said, lying back against the pillows.    
  
Heart pounding, Sûla climbed into the wide bed and laid his cheek against Ar-Pharazôn’s chest.  “My Lord,” he said, “before you sleep, I have a . . . something to tell you.”  
  
“Mmm,” Ar-Pharazôn replied, shifting about, much like a dog squirming to make his bed.  
  
“Last night, the woman named Zôri, the one who was killed, she would not go with the rest of the servants, and instead stole the horse you gave me and rode off. I don’t know why. I followed her to get my horse back and became lost.”  
  
“What now?” Ar-Pharazôn roused himself, raising his head. “You left camp?”  
  
“I did not intend to, my Lord,” Sûla said, keeping his eyes downcast. “I ended up at the front of the Pass and became involved in the defense that met the Haradrim.  I witnessed Tigôn’s bravery.  He was nearly killed by a Haradren warrior.”  
  
“Indeed?”  
  
Sûla risked looking up at the King’s face and discovered him scowling and rubbing an eye with two fingers.  
  
“I came back as swiftly as I could,” Sûla continued. “Please forgive me. I was only trying to make sure all the household did as you ordered.”  
  
“You disobeyed me,” the King said. “Even if you had a good reason, I cannot allow something like this to go unpunished.  And I doubt what you’re saying because you asked to go to Tigôn’s defense earlier and I refused.”  
  
“It is as I said, my Lord. No more. No doubt Aphanuzîr and Annatar can vouch for the woman’s sudden appearance on the battlefield since they said she was killed by the catapult.”  
  
There was a long silence.  Sûla inwardly trembled, wondering what would happen, but the King did not seem particularly angry.  Finally he said, “It is good that you told me yourself rather than allowing me to hear about it from others. You have given me good service in the past, which I will consider when I decide your punishment. It will wait until we reach Umbar.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla said meekly.  
  
“Sleep now.  We have a long march tomorrow.”  
  
Sûla felt the King relax and soon heard soft snoring. So, punishment was to be put off for a while. Not knowing what would happen was almost worse than getting it over with at once. Still, the King hadn’t clapped him in chains or ordered a whipping on the spot. He had not even put him out of his bed. And that, more than anything, seemed hopeful. Sûla sighed and soon drifted off himself.  
  
* * * *    
  
After a long day’s march across the plains, Mairon stood in a cold breeze, sucking his teeth, while the guards prepared to chain him to an x-shaped wooden cross placed upright in the back of the wain for the long crawl through Umbar’s streets.  He was to be a public display of the King’s power. Mairon could understand the King’s reasoning, as it was exactly what he would do, but that didn’t make him any happier about it.  
  
“This was not part of the bargain, Ar-Pharazôn,” Mairon growled, struggling slightly against one of the guards, as the man raised one of his arms to chain it.  
  
The King regarded him sternly from his perch atop his white horse. “I’m still deciding whether or not to strip you naked, the usual fate for prisoners of war.”  
  
“I think you just want to see my bare arse,” Mairon said.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn frowned, looking at the guards who were pretending not to notice.  “I liked the look of it decorated with red stripes,” he replied.  
  
“If your goal is to impress your subjects, don’t you think I present a more formidable appearance in my armor?” Mairon asked, hopefully.    
  
“Yes, that’s the reason I’m letting you keep your clothes on. You are lucky I’m in a good mood and that I’m pleased with your service,” the King said.  
  
“Not pleased enough to allow me to forgo humiliation,” Mairon said.  
  
The King eyed him narrowly. “Can you honestly tell me you haven’t earned this at some point in your nefarious career? This is the price of surrender, Annatar. Be grateful I don’t think of something worse.”  
  
“You will live to regret it,” Mairon said under his breath. But in the end, he was forced to accept the situation or show powers he did not wish anyone to know he had. The guards chained him to the splintery wood by his arms and feet and they wrapped one of the chains about his waist. Grinding his teeth, he reminded himself that it was not nearly as bad as Melkor’s tortures. He must endure this humiliation in the name of the Plan.  
  
While hammering the links of one of the chains shut, one of the guards missed and struck Mairon’s wrist. Momentarily losing control, the sorcerer silently flung out a curse that caused the guard to fly backwards off the wain into the mud.  
  
The other guards laughed. “You clumsy oaf, get back up here!”one of them said. The fallen guard eyed Mairon suspiciously and Mairon had a momentary sense of satisfaction. But it did not last.  
  
The King rode his restive white horse at the head of his troops, resplendent in his golden armor and flowing crimson cape. Drawn by the spectacle, nearly all the inhabitants appeared, leaning from windows and rooftops, amassing in the streets waving colored scarves and making that strange ululation that Umbarians used. A crier rode before the King calling to make way for Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor, the greatest King of Arda.  “He has captured the dreaded Enemy, the Dark One, Sauron the Abhorrent.  See how he has been chained and rendered harmless,” the crier called.  
  
Hmmm, not so harmless, Mairon thought. Many of the Umbarians made hissing noises at him. There were some, wearing their hair in multiple skinny braids, recognizable as Black Serpent followers, who stared silently at him.  He sent out a call and not a few bowed their heads slightly as he passed. It was a momentary balm to his sore pride.  
     
It had been a long time since Mairon had been in Umbar and it was not quite as provincial as he remembered, as it had grown beyond the confines of the city walls made of mud brick, and there were more multi-storied structures.  The plastered walls were white-washed so that they gleamed golden in the late afternoon sun.  The houses rose tier upon tier along a hill that overlooked the deep harbor with its sparkling purple-blue water. The complex of wooden docks built to service the ships groaned with make-shift shops from which vendors plied their wares. The King’s caravan traversed a road that wound serpentine around the hill, through narrows streets overshadowed by more of the white-washed houses with thatched roofs. Mairon’s wolf-sensitive nose was assailed by urban smells: ordure in the streets, human sweat, wood-smoke, and the smell of rotting seaweed brought in by the breeze.  The wooden structure on which he hung rocked slightly when they rounded a curve. Each time it did, he found himself counting . . . three, four, five. Overhead, seagulls wheeled and screeched.  
  
The ride seemed interminable, and Mairon retreated into his past, remembering the thrill of holding up that perfect golden band in his tongs, hot from the forge. His finger throbbed slightly where the Ring had encircled it.  
  
By the time they reached the crest of the great hill, Mairon was in a bad enough mood to eviscerate the first guard who came near him. At first it had felt good to have his arms extended but now his shoulders ached deeply from carrying much of his weight. A sudden lurch when the wagon stopped nearly toppled the rickety cross, momentarily crushing Mairon’s foot against the bed of the wain.  He let out an oath that caused dozens of people in the crowd to fall on their bellies, covering their ears.  
  
He heard Ar-Pharazôn shout, “By the dog, get him down!”  
  
Mairon suffered for the length of time it took two guards to clamber up in the wain, shift the scaffold, and unlock the chains that bound him.  They helped him down, reshackled his hands together, removed his helm, and affixed two chains to a collar about his neck. With one guard holding a chain on each side, they led him, limping slightly, past the great gates.  
  
The King’s entire household seemed to be crawling like ants about the gardens in front of the palace. Awkwardly, Mairon rubbed the blood back into his arms as he watched the well-fed figure of Rabêlozar, the Númenórean Regent appear. Surrounded by his fawning courtiers, the Regent bowed deeply before Ar-Pharazôn. From what Mairon knew of the Regent, the man could be little pleased to have the whole Númenórean army encamped outside the walls and invading his streets, or to have the King reappearing so soon to check up on his cozy little kingdom.  The banquet tonight was likely to be an interesting political affair.  It was an environment in which Mairon thrived.  
  
The King approached with Rabêlozar waddling along at his side.  The Regent was even more odious up close, with triple chins, a large, fleshy noise and narrow eyes.  He reminded Mairon of an orc dressed in velvet finery.  
  
“Ah, I see the news is not exaggerated for once,” Rabêlozar said, standing in front of Mairon and cocking his head as he looked the sorcerer over. “So, you did capture him, my Lord.  How clever of you.  I wouldn’t have conceived it possible.”  
  
Mairon leveled his gaze at the Regent. “For verity’s sake, I was not captured, I surrendered.”    
  
Rabêlozar quailed under Mairon’s eyes, jerking up a hand protectively.  “Is this true, my Lord?” he asked the King.  
  
“In a manner of speaking,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  
  
“He is not what I imagined,” Rabêlozar replied.  
  
“No, he’s not,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “But do not be deceived by a handsome countenance.  This is the Dark Lord. I am entrusting you to take stringent security precautions while he is housed here.  He must not be allowed to escape.”  
  
“I have a dungeon,” Rabêlozar offered.  
  
Mairon’s gut rolled.  He darted a poisonous glance at Ar-Pharazôn.  He wouldn’t dare.  
  
“No, he is to be treated like a guest,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “just a well-watched one. We will have a Council meeting shortly.  I need you to provide some smiths to remove the chains. He will attend the banquet tonight and sit at my side.”  
  
“As you wish,” Rabêlozar said.  He looked doubtfully at Mairon.  “Is he a prisoner or an ally, my Lord?”  
  
“You may speak directly to me,” Mairon said with a low growl. “I do understand your tongue, as crude as it is, and I do not bite–at least not hard enough to break the flesh.” He pulled his lips back from his pointed incisors. The Regent took a step backward.  
  
“Are you sure about this, Sire?” Rabêlozar said. “The dungeon is an option.”  
  
“Do not question me,” Ar-Pharazôn said, bluntly.  
  
Rabêlozar dipped his head.  “All will be as you wish, Great King.”  He gestured to some of his own servants.  “Very well, then. Put him in the Bronze room. When I call for him, bring him to the Council chambers.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn stepped close.  Mairon could smell the perfumed musk of him. “See that, Annatar. I keep my promises. Make sure you keep yours.”  
   
“Assuredly,” Mairon said. And his mouth curled into the semblance of a smile.       
   
* * * *  
The setting sun brightened the raft of clouds into gold and purple splendor mirrored in the bay below. Over Sûla’s shoulder, Eärendil shone bright in the east against the deepening sky. In the midst of the bustle, he stood for a moment, contemplating the beauty of the heavens. “Beautiful mariner, wanderer afar, your doom revealed in the bright flight of a star,” Sûla remembered his mother used to chant when Eärendil first appeared in the evening. That was when he was young, before . . . .  And now he was sleeping with Eärendil’s descendent, Ar-Pharazôn, the golden. He reflected that the King did not shine nearly as brightly as his ancestor.  
  
Sûla turned and passed through the wrought-iron gates of the palace, delighted at the prospect of sleeping indoors in a warm room and eating sumptuous meals. The palace was light and airy with high roofs and interior walls filled with mosaic murals of seascapes--gulls and dolphins cavorting in the waves.  Sûla didn’t understand why the Umbarians would decorate their walls with creatures that they could see everyday. If it were up to him, he’d commission something more exotic. The architecture was attractive, but after living in the magnificent city of Armenelos, Sûla found that nothing impressed him.  
   
He didn’t have much time to contemplate his surroundings. Nibanuzîr, Ar-Pharazôn’s head of household, kept him busy unpacking and airing out the King’s clothes. The King had spent several hours closeted with the Regent. When he returned, he seemed in a good mood. Sûla helped him bathe and dress before the evening’s events: a Council meeting and a banquet the Regent was holding in the King’s honor.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn doffed his field clothes in favor of dress similar to what he usually wore when at the palace in Armenelos: a short overtunic of crimson damask silk with long sleeves, laced loosely in front over his massive chest; a wide jewel-encrusted belt; and black leggings with a pouch that showed the bulge at his crotch to good advantage through the skirt of the tunic.  Sûla knew the pouch was padded.  He helped the King pick out a diadem and necklace of matching rubies and jet and arrayed him in them, while the King sat in a wide chair, nursing a silver goblet of wine. So far he had said nothing about punishing Sûla for his disobedience, so Sûla entertained the notion that he might have forgotten.  
  
“Sûla,” Ar-Pharazôn said, winding an arm about his zirâmîki’s waist. “I wish you to attend me at the banquet tonight.”  
  
“A pleasure, my Lord,” Sûla murmured.  
  
“I want you to wear a dance costume.  One that shows off your lovely body.”  At this, Ar-Pharazôn squeezed Sûla’s arse.  “You will perform for the Regent and his court tonight.”  
  
Sûla looked down at himself still wearing his leather breeches and woolen tunic. “I’m flattered, my Lord,” Sûla said, “But I did not bring anything suitable since I did not see a call for dancing while on campaign.”  
  
“No matter. Go to the Regent’s courtesans.  No doubt one of them can provide something attractive.”  
  
Sûla bit his lip. “If you please, my Lord, I should like to practice before performing. It’s been a while since I danced for you.”  
  
“Very well.” Ar-Pharazôn got up heavily. “Go on with you. For the next several hours I will be in the Council chambers. We have some business to conduct and I must keep a promise I made to Annatar.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord.” Sûla bowed and started to leave.  
  
“Don’t forget, Sûla, I still need to devise some punishment for your disobedience.”  
  
Sûla’s mouth dropped and the King chuckled. “Did you think I had forgotten?”  
  
“No, my Lord, of course not.” Sûla bowed and left the room with a tightness in his throat.  He figured that his dance had better be a good one.  
  
* * * *  
  
Tigôn stood near the door with the other pages, Kuphîr, Zanar, and Darîkil, in case the King needed them to run a message somewhere.  Seated at a long, oaken table within the room were most of the King’s Counselors, the King’s Steward, Lord Azgarad, and the Umbarian Regent. Tigôn did not like the look of him. They had brought braziers of coals into the room to chase the chill from the air. Tigôn inched closer to one and held out his hands.  
  
Darîkil leaned over and whispered, “I heard the King is mad at Rothîbal.  Do you think he’ll be whipped?”  His dark eyes glowed at the idea.  
  
“Doubtful,” Tigôn replied. “It's unlikely he'd whip a member of the Council of the Sceptre. It’ll be something else creative.”  
  
“Shush!” A Bawîba Manô priest standing nearby put a finger to his lips. To Tigôn, the priests always looked threatening and bizarre in their feathered cloaks and helmets resembling an open eagle’s beak.  
  
There were reports from various lords including a lengthy one from Lord Azgarad on the disposition of the captured Haradrim. “I would like to commission some healers from Umbar,” Azgarad said. “Many of the captives sustained burns from Annatar’s missiles, some severe.”  
  
“I can send for some,” Rabêlozar said. “They will want to be paid.” He raised an eyebrow at Ar-Pharazôn.  
  
“That is well.  In fact, Azgarad, I wish you to pay our warriors a portion of their fee here in Umbar.”  Turning to Rabêlozar, the King said, “No doubt they will spend it here on food, lodging, and presents.  That should please your citizens as well as your own coffers.”  
  
“Very good, my Lord.” Rabêlozar’s face lifted into a greedy smile.  
   
“Aphanuzîr, how long to get supplies and all the men loaded for the voyage home?”  
  
“We should be ready within a fortnight,” the Lord from Andúnië said briskly, although he looked tired. Tigôn knew that the next days would be busy running messages to facilitate this major transfer of the army from land to sea.  At least he would not have much time for reflection.  
  
“That is excellent,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “I too long for the sight of Númenor’s fair shores, don’t you?”  There was a general heartfelt murmur of assent.  The King sat up tall and looked steadily at each of them in turn. “I have this to say to all of you.  I am pleased with this campaign. We have fought a great victory and suffered little loss of life or equipment. I am prepared to be generous to those who have aided the empire. However, you must also know that I cannot tolerate incompetence.” His glance lit on Lord Rothîbal, who visibly quailed.  “Lord Rothîbal, you failed to send advance scouts through the pass.”  
  
Rothîbal struggled to his feet. “My Lord, a regrettable error,” he said in his high voice. “Only caused by your success in capturing the Zigûr.  I did not anticipate . . .”  
  
“Yes, and your thoughtlessness caused scores of needless deaths.  In punishment, I am confiscating your property in the Valley of Curunórë.”  
  
Rothîbal’s mouth dropped open. “But my Lord . . .”  
  
The King leaned forward, thumping both hands palms down on the table. His eyes narrowed.  “Do you wish to make a complaint?”  He turned and eyed others.  “Do you feel this unfair?”  
  
There was a general murmuring of, “No, my Lord.”  
  
“Good. Rothîbal you may sit.” Sheepishly, the bulky lord sank down into his chair.  
  
It seemed drastic, Tigôn thought, but not excessive. He knew it to be a choice bit of property, but not large compared to the rest of Rothîbal’s holdings. Others had fared worse for crossing the King. Tigôn glanced at Darîkil noting that the dimple in the page’s cheek had deepened. Rothîbal was not well liked by the pages, often arguing with them when they brought a message from the King.     
  
Ar-Pharazôn sat back and his face relaxed. “While transgressions are punished, good service is rewarded. Azgarad, Aphanuzîr, and Izindor, you are all commended.  I will grant you all a favor.  You may decide what to ask for over the next several days.  Izindor, I understand your son, Dulginzin, single-handedly took out an entire company of our Haradren foes.”  
  
Izindor rose and bowed with a delighted wriggle. “Yes, my Lord.  He is quite skilled in battle.”  
  
A perfect brute, Tigôn thought.  He’d heard tales of Izindor’s son.  He’d killed men who had surrendered by slicing their bellies open. Apparently word of that had not reached the King.  
  
“Commendable, I will grant him a boon as well,” said the King.  He nodded at Amandil’s son. “Nimruzîr, I hear you did an admirable job commanding the archers at the pass.”    
  
“Thank you, my Lord,” Elendil said. Gracefully, he unfolded that tall body, rose, and bowed.  Tigôn was as pleased as if his own father had been praised.  Elendil was like an uncle to him.  As a boy, he had been a guest in their house at Andúnië and always thought of him as Elendil since that is what he was called in his household.  His sons, Anárion and Isildur, had been summertime friends in years past.  It had been a long time since the halcyon days of their youth. He suddenly realized how deeply he missed their companionship, especially that of Anárion who was his own age.  In many ways his duty as the King’s messenger was lonely.  
  
Then Elendil turned and looked directly at him standing by the doorway.  “I would like to add a commendation of my own, my King. Your messenger, Tigôn, stood up bravely against the Haradrim, nearly giving his life in the process.”  
  
Startled, Tigôn stood up straight as all eyes turned toward him.  
  
“Ah yes, that fact is known to me,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  He nodded towards Tigôn.  “Well done, my lad,” he said. “You also may ask a favor.  Think on it and come to me later.”  
  
Blushing, Tigôn bowed low, then looked gratefully at Elendil, who gave him a quick smile before sitting back down.  
  
“By Ossë,” Darîkil said softly, turning and looking enviously at Tigôn.  “A King’s favor is no light thing. What will you ask for? Gold? Time off?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Tigôn whispered.  
  
“And now, we come to another matter,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “Tell the guards to bring him in,” he gestured at the pages. Tigôn went to the door and beckoned at guards standing in the hall. They came forward, leading Annatar chained by the neck between them.  He was dressed in a black robe of rich sueded silk embroidered with gold thread.  His fiery hair was braided back from his leaf-shaped ears and hung like a curtain down his back.  Annatar moved like the power of flowing water and Tigôn could hardly keep his eyes from him. As he brushed by with a musical chink of the chains, Tigôn felt something like the sharp pin-pricks you get from touching metal in winter time. He couldn’t help it.  He lowered his head in respect and so did Darîkil.  
  
The guards led Annatar into the room, where his very presence commanded everyone's attention. The King rose from his chair. “Annatar, you have acquitted yourself admirably.  You shared your knowledge of the fire-flinging engines with us, and are responsible for the destruction of our enemies.  I hereby honor my promise and allow you to go free from the shackles.”  He nodded at the guards who produced a key and proceeded to unlock the Zigûr’s chains.  First the bands binding his wrists, then the ones about his ankles, and finally they removed the ones attached to the leather collar, which he still wore about his neck.  Strangely, once they were free, there seemed to be a collective sigh in the room.  Tigôn felt lighter.  
  
“You are great and wise, Ar-Pharazôn,” Annatar said, bowing.  He rubbed his wrists, one after the other.  
  
“Do not forget yourself, Annatar,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “You are still my prisoner and will come back to Númenor so I can watch you.  Do not think of trying to escape.  The guards have orders to cut you down instantly, should you try to do so.”  
  
Tigôn saw nods of approval from several lords, including Lord Amandil.  
  
A grimace crossed Annatar’s lovely face.  “I have not forgotten, O King,” he said.  
  
“There is an opportunity here, Annatar. Good service will be rewarded, as others in my court can attest.  Disloyalty will be met with severity.”  
  
“I hear your words,” Annatar replied.  
  
“Now then,” said Ar-Pharazôn, rubbing his hands. “We have a banquet to attend, thanks to the generosity of the Regent here. I am sure that will come as welcome news.”  There were chuckles around the table as the King rose and the others followed suit.  
  
The Regent said, “You are all welcome. We have prepared quite an entertainment for you. Please to follow me.”  
  
As the Council members filed by Tigôn, the King paused, bent slightly and said in Tigôn’s ear. “Go find Sûla and bring him to the banquet hall. He should be with the musicians. As reward, you may stay and eat with us.”  
  
Tigôn looked up into the King’s vivid blue eyes. He swallowed. “Yes, my Lord.” The King swept by in all his crimson finery, leaving a scent of roses and musk oil in his wake.  
  
“Gah, the banquet! You have all the luck!” Darîkil said enviously.  
  
Tigôn gripped the doorframe for a moment. Why him and not one of the other pages?   Sûla was the last person he wanted to see right now.    
   
  
**************  
  
All the Adûnaic names here are elfscribe inventions except Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr.  
Curunórë is Quenya meaning “inventor’s land.”  Thanks Mal!  
  



	16. Of Kisses and Jellied Eels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tigôn’s confusion increases when the alluring Sûla kisses him and Annatar pokes up the bees during a banquet.

As Tigôn filed his way through a veritable warren of servants' passageways in his search for the elusive Sûla, his thoughts were all a jumble. What was he going to say to his former friend? _I’m sorry, Sûla, for being an insensitive prick._ No, surely not that. _Sûla, where did you really learn black magic because I don’t believe the Haradrim taught you._ Not a good tact either. _Why am I having dreams about kissing you, Sûla?_ Crap, crap, crap! He wished he was one thousand leagues away from here.  
  
He took a wrong turn and ended up in the kitchens, which were a hive of activity. Cooks turned spits of sizzling sea bass, game birds, and an entire ox; others pulled arm-waving crabs and writhing eels from cold water tanks and dropped them with hisses of steam into huge copper pots. They garnished platters and rushed about with baskets heaped with fresh-baked breads. The plethora of fine smells made Tigôn’s mouth water. He hadn’t eaten anything since a bowl of porridge that morning.  
  
A man wearing a purple-splotched apron emerged from a cellar carrying a large wine cask on his shoulder. “Who in bloody thunder are you?” he demanded.  
  
“Ar-Pharazôn’s messenger. I’m looking for the musicians,” Tigôn said.  
  
“Well, you’re quite out of the way here,” the man said. “They like to practice in the solarium. He tilted his head. “Go through there, up the stairs, take a right, then a left, and you’ll find them. Maybe.” He grinned.  
  
“Oof,” Tigôn exclaimed when a cook carrying a sack of flour ran smack into him.  
  
“Get outta here, Númenórean,” the man grunted. Brushing flour from his jacket, Tigôn hastily retreated.  
  
He followed the directions as best he could, taking several wrong turns before he heard a tap-tap of drums and a breathy wail of flutes. He followed the echoing sound to its source and then peered around a colonnaded arch into a large room edged with hundreds of potted trees arranged in rows around a fountain and lit by hanging lanterns that cast flickering shadows. Ah, found him.  
  
Sûla was dancing. He was at the center of a group of musicians: four drummers seated on steps around the fountain and three young men playing flutes. Six beautiful dark-haired women wearing tight bodices and long, flowing skirts danced around him in swooping circles. But it was Sûla who commanded Tigôn’s attention. He had never seen his friend in a dance costume before and he was a sight worth looking at.  
  
Sûla wore a sleeveless top of fine metal mesh that stopped short of his navel. The shirt was loosely cut, shimmering as he moved. Black silk trousers rode low on his slender hips, displaying his flat belly and the sinuous curves of his loins. A long red scarf was tied about his hips, its fringed ends dusting the floor and then whirling and fluttering after him. Gold wrist guards and the curling dragon adorned his arms and an elaborate filigree circlet fitted with a single garnet rested upon his brow. Heavy earrings peeked from his rippling black hair that flowed loose about his shoulders. His face was painted more heavily than normal: black kohl lined his eyes, a rosy golden tint brought out his cheekbones, and his upturned mouth was painted red as a ripe fruit.  
  
He danced in the Umbarian style, which meant much expressive gesturing with his hands and an angular bend to his wrists, elbows, knees. Barefoot, his feet made a slap-slap sound on the tile flooring; tiny bells about his ankles jingled as he spun and undulated to the beat. He was quite simply breath-taking and Tigôn could not stop staring.  
  
Sûla looked up, halted in mid-stride, and staggered slightly as if unbalanced. Tigôn watched as emotions chased themselves across his face, a hopeful rise of the eyebrows, replaced by a petulant frown. The musicians ceased playing and all in the solarium looked at Tigôn. He felt his face bloom with heat. Some of the women tittered behind graceful hands. Tigôn realized his mouth was open and shut it. A woman murmured something and Sûla smiled. Then they were speaking rapidly in Umbarian with much gesturing and Tigôn remembered that these were Sûla’s own people. No wonder the zirâmîki seemed to fit in here.  
  
“Well, what do you want, messenger?” Sûla called. Striding forward, he came near enough that Tigôn could smell the hot citrusy scent of him.  
  
“Um,” Tigôn faltered, although he couldn’t take his eyes from that lithe body. Sûla's chest rose and fell heavily from the exercise. A sparse line of fine dark hair began just under his tightly coiled navel and trailed downward, disappearing into the waistband of the low-riding trousers. Embarrassed, Tigôn quickly looked back at Sûla’s face.  
  
Sûla put his hands on his hips and laughed. “It’s rare to find a King’s messenger tongue-tied. As I recall, you were not at a loss for words last time we met.”  
  
“No. It’s just that . . . I didn’t expect you to look like . . . you do.”  
  
“Good or bad?” Sûla said, seemingly amused.  
  
“Um,” Tigôn said again, feeling like a complete dolt. He straightened up. “The King commands . . . ,” he began.  
  
Sûla came closer, stretched out a hand and swiped a finger across Tigôn’s cheek. “You have something white here,” he said.  
  
“Do I?” Tigôn replied. “It must be the flour.”  
  
“Flour? Were you kissing a cook, my friend?”  
  
“No, I ran into . . . it matters not,” Tigôn said, wiping his face as best he could with the heel of his hand. The feeling of Sûla’s touch lingered almost like a burn. “What I’m trying to say, Sûla . . .”  
  
Turning to face the others, Sûla said loudly. “This is Tigôn, hero of the battle at Arzog’s Pass. He says he prefers women, so please bid him welcome.”  
  
Next thing Tigôn knew, he was surrounded by the pretty dancers, all softly speaking words of welcome. A fox-eyed woman with a sharp chin reached up to touch his curly hair, and laughing, said something to Sûla.  
  
“They don’t see blonds too often,” Sûla said. “She says your hair looks like flax.”  
  
Completely flustered now, Tigôn stepped back. “My pardon,” he said to the women, and gave a little bow, “but I’m here on an urgent matter. Sûla, the King commands you to appear at the banquet and I’ve lost time trying to find you. We should go at once.”  
  
Sûla frowned. “I figured he’d be at Council half the evening.”  
  
“They finished fairly quickly,” Tigôn said.  
  
“Then I guess we should not keep the Great King waiting,” Sûla replied. He spoke to the musicians, who began gathering up their drums, then he gestured at Tigôn. “Well, lead on, messenger.”  
  
Tigôn cleared his throat. “I’m afraid someone else will need to do that. I have no idea how to get to the banquet hall.”  
  
The musicians were already moving past him, talking and laughing. The women followed. The one who’d touched Tigôn’s hair gave him a sly smile over her shoulder, then she was out the door. Tigôn felt himself blushing.  
  
“I think Lillu likes you,” Sûla said as he and Tigôn followed the group down the hall. “That could turn into a good time for you. These women are the Regent’s zirâmîthin, his courtesans.”  
  
“Oh,” Tigôn said. “Then, I doubt the Regent would take kindly to her . . . um, showing me a good time.”  
  
“He loans them out sometimes to guests, so Lillu told me.”  
  
“Really? How loathsome,” Tigôn declared.  
  
Sûla arched an eyebrow. “Oh no, they prefer it to sleeping with the Regent, who is said to have terrible body odor and a penchant for inflicting pain. A most unpleasant combination. A handsome mîki like you would be a treat for them.” Tigôn scowled and Sûla chuckled. Then he spoke more softly behind his hand. “I’m a little worried since they said Rabêlozar also likes boys. See the two flute players there? They’re his zirâmîkin. And one of them overheard the Regent praising my looks.” Sûla chewed on his lower lip.  
  
Tigôn was aghast. “The King wouldn’t loan you out. Not you. You’re his favorite.”  
  
“The King’s fancies don’t stay with one zirâmîki too long, so I’ve heard. I’ve been lucky so far. But I expect it’s a matter of time until he tires of me and throws me out on my arse.”  
  
“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Tigôn said. “Not especially after he sees you dancing.”  
  
Sûla sighed. “You don’t seem to understand what being a slave means, Tigôn. My body belongs to my masters to use as they will. So, if he decides to gift me to the Regent . . . .” Sûla shrugged.  
  
“I don’t have to like it, do I?” Tigôn said.  
  
“Your feelings have little to do with the way things are,” Sûla replied. “I’d thought you learned that by now.” Then a smile flickered across his face. “Did you like my dancing, truly?”  
  
Tigôn nodded. “It was fantastic. I am impressed.”  
  
“Mmm, well perhaps if the King agrees with you, I can keep my position for a while,” Sûla replied. There was a long awkward pause as they walked. Then unexpectedly Sûla said, “So, what would you say to a little tryst?”  
  
Startled, Tigôn glanced over at him, striding along all silk and metal, his trousers making a soft swishing sound, his mesh shirt chinking slightly. “Um,” Tigôn said.  
  
Sûla laughed. “A tryst with Lillu. What did you think I meant?”  
  
Tigôn felt his temper flare. “Do you purposefully do that? Or is it just your nature?”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“You know what I mean. You bait me. You’ve been doing it since we first met.”  
  
Sûla stopped. The others had gone on ahead and it was just the two of them in the hall. Sûla’s eyes flashed and suddenly he shoved Tigôn up against the wall, pressing their bodies close together. “Do you think I want a piece of _you_? A spoiled lordling who can’t even thank me for saving his life because he has such contempt for a zirâmîki?”  
  
“That’s not it at all. Get off of me!” Tigôn said in a panic. By Mandos, he hoped that Sûla had not detected his unfortunate and embarrassing response. He gave Sûla a shove but the zirâmîki’s metal shirt stung his hand and Sûla simply shoved back. Tigôn’s shoulders connected sharply with the wall. “When will you learn that I don’t want you,” Tigôn said tightly and for a moment they glared at each other. One of Sûla’s golden earrings winked as it hung from his lobe, trembling in the torchlight.  
  
“Ha,” Sûla said, rocking his hips against Tigôn. “Your mouth says one thing and your body another.” Tigôn could feel the hard ridge at Sûla’s groin pressing against his own through the thin layers of cloth. Sûla shifted his hips again and fire jolted upward from Tigôn’s loins.  
  
“Get off or I will punch you,” Tigôn growled.  
  
“I don’t think you really mean that, messenger,” Sûla said. “Seems like you’ve got some interest down there.” Putting his elbows to either side of Tigôn’s neck, Sûla sank his fingers into Tigôn’s curls, massaging along his scalp.  
  
“We’ll be late and the King will be displeased,” Tigôn choked. Powerful sensations coursed through him and despite his words, he felt himself relaxing into Sûla’s embrace.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want me?” Sûla asked, softly. “I could make it feel quite good, pretty boy. It’s my profession after all. Tell me what you’re feeling now.” Again he rocked his hips, more gently this time.  
  
“What I’m feeling? I don’t know . . .” Tigôn hesitated, watching Sûla’s wickedly red-tinted mouth. Sûla took Tigôn’s face in his hands; then his head tilted and his lips parted. Closing his eyes, Tigôn moaned softly in surrender. He felt Sûla’s mouth touch his. So warm and strong, gently at first, then increasing in urgency as those lips took his again and yet again, now opening a little wider, sinking deep, drawing Tigôn’s mouth along, nearly against his will. This was nothing like kissing his cousin where he had all the control. This was masterful, possessive . . . and familiar. Tigôn had felt this in his dream. His heart drummed a dance throughout his body. He put his hands on the warm bare skin of Sûla’s back, although whether embracing him or pushing him away, Tigôn could not have said.  
  
“There,” Sûla said, pulling back, still gently holding Tigôn’s face. His mouth quirked with amusement. “I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you. So, I’ll consider that your thanks to me for saving your life. Don’t worry lordling, you need never do it again.” He ran a thumb over Tigôn’s lips. “Better get rid of the paint. We can’t have you resembling a whore, can we.” He gave Tigôn a look that seemed like it was meant to be a smirk, but instead looked strangely sad. Then he set off down the hall. The twin ridges of his lower back muscles flexed as he walked, the top curve of his buttocks just visible above the silk trousers, his ankle bracelets jingling ever so faintly. Tigôn stared after him, his whole body aflame.  
  
********  
Pharazôn sat in a large chair at the head of a long table, resting after the course of jellied eels. To his right, he heard the Regent expounding on the virtues of the next course which he promised would be a spiced bass stuffed with crab. He heard the musical clink of cutlery on plates and voices engaged in many conversations. The room was pleasant. On the wall opposite there was a brilliantly colored painting of fishermen raising nets into a boat; behind him blazed a brazier of coals. In the background, a musician played a lyre.  
  
It was a relatively private dinner for Ar-Pharazôn and key members of his entourage. Two dozen men all told. Most of his Counselors were here. Among them were his old friend Aphanuzîr and his charming and diplomatic son Nimruzîr; Izindor and his two odious sons; and Ikar-lak, Manwë’s head priest, who sat toward the end of the table next to three more of the Bawîba Manô. The priests wore their feathered and beaked headdresses even at meat and Pharazôn had the distinct impression of a group of vultures waiting patiently for him to die. Fortunately, the priests took a vow of silence during meals with outsiders, which was the only thing that would save Pharazôn the bother of throwing them out at some point for being insufferable pricks. To his left sat Annatar, resplendent in his black silk that contrasted nicely with the fiery hair worn loose. A string of black onyx beads were plaited into the braids over his ears. Azgarad, the steward, was notably absent, having gone back into the city to attend to matters.  
  
Already Pharazôn felt the beaming ease engendered by good food and wine and was working diligently on getting soused. The Regent kept a fine larder, doubly appreciated after weeks of eating campaign food. He reached for a pickled quail’s egg, musing that a table was useful for holding the many plates and platters filled with delicacies, but he missed the dining couches from his palace that came equipped with a lithe young body to feed and stroke him. It made meals so much more enjoyable. For the most part, this meal, for all its fine food, had lacked sensuality and interesting conversation.  
  
Pharazôn pressed a napkin to his lips to catch an eel-flavored belch and reflected that he had reason to celebrate. Things were going better now than he ever remembered during his reign. What an ally he had in the Zigûr! Even Azgarad had seemed duly impressed. Annatar possessed a keen mind, knowledge of war engines and tactics, not to mention the elixir of youth that would make Pharazôn exceedingly rich once he forced the secret from him. Who knew what other magic he possessed? All of this knowledge he now controlled as long as Annatar was his captive. He stole a glance at the sorcerer, admiring his exotic elvish features, the long limbs, elegant white neck and silky red hair that Annatar was now pushing back over his shoulders. Capturing him was a brilliant move on his part, one that would surely change Númenor’s fortunes for the better.  
  
Drinking resolutely, Rabêlozar the Regent sat to the King’s right. Pharazôn turned to speak to him and caught a whiff of something unpleasant. Wrinkling his nose, the King decided that he would have to gift Rabêlozar with a crate of perfume. It had the advantage of being both a rich present and at the same time somewhat insulting. The Regent’s time would soon come. Azgarad was making inquiries concerning the taxes Rabêlozar collected for Númenor. There had been discrepancies.  
  
“You keep a most sumptuous table,” Pharazôn said to the Regent.  
  
“I am pleased you are enjoying the viands, my Lord,” Rabêlozar said, all three chins wobbling with sincerity. “Just wait until they bring out the sweets. I have a cook who has made them a specialty.”  
  
“I can see that,” Pharazôn remarked amiably. He lifted his empty wine cup to be refilled and when a servant didn’t immediately appear, he wondered where Sûla was. Ah yes, he’d sent him off to prepare with the musicians. Pharazôn smiled at that. The Umbarian court was in for a treat when his favorite zirâmîki danced, but right now he missed Sûla’s attentive service. Perhaps he should have called him back sooner so Sûla could wait on him before the performance. In truth, a kiss from those lovely lips would be most welcome right about now. All the better if it troubled Ikar-lak’s sensibilities. Where were the dancers anyhow? He’d sent Tigôn after them more than an hour ago.              
  
Absently, the King fingered the gold thread in his sleeve. He rather regretted the necessity of what he needed to do, but no slave should get so far above his station that he could ignore his sovereign’s orders. Sûla had become too close to the royal ear and Pharazôn knew there was talk about it. Earlier that evening he’d conceived an idea that would spear three fish with one thrust. It would punish Sûla for his disobedience in a way that would not damage his worth but still show the court that he did not receive favored treatment; it would smooth Rabêlozar’s ruffled feathers at having to entertain the whole Númenórean army; and free his own bed for the night without anyone suspecting his motives. Pharazôn had a suspicion that his Counselors would not appreciate what he had planned, particularly Aphanuzîr, who was becoming more critical all the time. For a moment he admired his own cleverness. He would surpass his father in greatness. Surely, he rivaled even the Zigûr, who sat so docilely at his side.  
  
Annatar had closed his eyes to savor a slice of cheese. As if sensing the King’s gaze, those eyes opened, the pupils slitted in the bright torchlight. He smiled prettily at Pharazôn. A pointed tongue darted over that sumptuous mouth. Pharazôn imagined it flicking over certain parts of his anatomy and suddenly there was no need for the padding in his crotch. The images and sensations from the time he’d so roughly taken Annatar blazed up in his thoughts, tantalizing him again. Such thoughts seemed to appear at the oddest moments. He reached down to adjust himself and swore he could hear a low chuckle from the sorcerer. The King raised his cup again. “Where is the wine?” he growled.  
  
Rabêlozar’s bushy eyebrows drew together in a frown. He snapped his fingers and a young woman carrying a jug hastened from the far end of the table to fill the King’s golden goblet.  
  
“My cupbearer is far more attentive than this,” Pharazôn commented.  
  
“Would you like her flogged, my Lord?” Rabêlozar said, rubbing his dimpled hands together.  
  
The woman paled and then bowed low. “I humbly beg pardon, your Highness,” she said in accented Adûnaic.  
  
As Annatar freed another small round of cheese from its red wax coating, he remarked, “I find flogging excellent incentive among my own slaves, but it shouldn’t be undertaken for trivial reasons. Like any good sycophant, the Regent seems rather eager to please you, my Lord.”  
  
Rabêlozar looked most annoyed at this assessment.  
  
“It’s not necessary to flog her,” Pharazôn said good-humoredly. He waved the woman off. “I was just missing my zirâmîki, Sûla.”  
  
“A most talented servant,” Annatar agreed, stroking his finger along his chin. “Umbarian, isn't he? He has the coloring.”  
  
“Oh yes, that one,” Rabêlozar said. “I noticed him right away in your entourage. Lovely boy to be sure. A good servant, you say? Is he as attentive in the bedroom?”  
  
“Better,” Pharazôn replied. “Tight as a knothole and a mouth sweet as honey.”  
  
There was a muffled choke and a clanging sound of a metal cup being knocked over. Pharazôn looked up in surprise and met Ikar-lak’s glare. The two dozen dinner guests fell silent as a servant rushed in to mop up the spill. By Ossë’s balls but the priests were a prudish lot! Pharazôn deliberately set down his cup. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard a man praising the skill of a servant before, Ikar-lak, especially since you have a few of your own.” Pharazôn let the innuendo hang there.  
  
The priest worked his mouth as if tempted to speak, but he did not. Instead, he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if brushing the topic aside.  
  
Pharazôn heard a strange noise like a congested mule trying to bray. Snock, snock, snock. It was that weird, half-wit son of Izindor snickering at something his brutish brother Dulginzin was whispering behind his hand.  
  
“It appears someone has a private joke,” Annatar said in his dulcet tones that nevertheless carried. He popped a piece of cheese into his mouth.  
  
“Pray, share it with us,” Pharazôn called. “I could use a laugh.”  
  
Izindor looked up abruptly. “My sons’ sense of humor does not appeal to everyone.”  
  
“Let me be the judge of it,” the King replied. He was disliking Izindor and his sons more than usual this evening.  
  
“My Lord,” Dulginzin said, straightening up, “we were just agreeing with the Regent’s opinion of your cupbearer. His looks, I mean. I wouldn’t know how tight his knothole was.”  
  
The half-wit with the wall-eye snickered again. What was his name? Mirandor. That was it.  
  
“Tread carefully,” the King warned. “You’re talking about my personal servant.”  
  
“Indeed yes, my apologies,” said Dulginzin. He stood unsteadily and raised his own wine vessel. “To the King’s Umbarian zîrâmiki and his fine . . . knothole. May all the Umbarians give as good service . . . .”  
  
“Dulginzin,” his father interrupted sharply, “perhaps you’d like to recount the tale of how you slew a score of Haradrim during the battle.”  
  
“Oh, with pleasure, Father,” Dulginzin said. Puffing out his bronze-plated chest he began a drunken retelling of his heroic smiting and slaying with much gesturing and repetition that soon had Pharazôn’s eyes glazing over. How many times could the man say, ‘And then I thrust my sword through his craven heart’? Dulginzin ended with, “Our most generous King gifted me with a . . . gift of my own choosing. So, my Lord, I’m thinking about what would be most suitable. Perhaps some well-trained slaves? Ones with mouths sweet as honey.”  
  
“Allowing a gift of one’s choosing was a most generous offer,” Rabêlozar said.  
  
Pharazôn nodded. “Rewarding good service keeps men loyal. One of the few worthwhile things I learned from my uncle, Tar-Palantir, along with the importance of honoring promises. It was my father who taught me that punishing poor service is equally as important for maintaining discipline. And I do honor my promises–within reason.” He narrowed his eyes at Dulginzin, but the man did not seem to heed the warning.  
  
“I’d like a warrior’s reward, perhaps a new dancing girl,” Dulginzin said.  
  
Izindor scowled at his son. “You have no need for another dancing girl, Dulgi.”  
  
“You have several days to make up your mind,” Pharazôn said.  “Choose wisely.”  
  
“Lord Izindor, your son seems to have a considerable appetite,” Annatar purred. “Let us hope desire does not cause poor judgement.”  
  
“I would agree with you, Annatar,” Rabêlozar said. “All things in moderation.”  
  
“Mmm, yes, as you demonstrate yourself when you sit down to table,” Annatar returned.  
  
Rabêlozar’s jowls shook in indignation. Dulginzin chortled.  
  
“Speaking of dancing girls,” Izindor said, “we have heard rumors of the skill of the Regent’s dancers and were looking forward to seeing them perform. So, tell me Lord Annatar, do you indulge in zirâmîthin or are zirâmîkin more to your taste?”  
  
“Neither,” said Annatar. “I did not have time for frivolity in Barad-dûr, or in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, and most certainly not in Angband.”  
  
Pharazôn noticed a visible shiver go through several of the guests at the bold reminder of Annatar’s past. Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr simultaneously ceased chewing. But Ikar-lak nodded agreement. Pharazôn was becoming tired of the implied criticism.  
  
“Relaxation and contemplation of beauty are not frivolous pastimes,” Pharazôn humphed. “I find watching beautiful dancers during the evening meal enables the mind to engage more fully with one’s duties in the morning. You might well have done the same to good effect, Annatar.”  
  
“I assure you,” Annatar replied, “watching my orcs leaping about wearing tiny costumes would neither be relaxing nor aesthetically pleasing.”  
  
There was a muffled explosion of tittering around the table and again that obnoxious snuffling laugh. Izindor’s arm moved suddenly under the table. Mirandor jumped and his mouth formed a silent O. Pharazôn chuckled.  
  
“And the elves in Ost-in-Edhil, did they not dance . . . before you destroyed them?” Aphanuzîr said, thumping his cup down.  
  
Annatar’s reaction was unexpected.  He actually blanched and lowered his eyes, staring at his right hand. He ran a thumb across the base of his middle finger. “They did dance and beautifully,” he said. “But not for me.”  
  
Pharazôn was riveted. How curious. Was this some kind of weakness that he could exploit?  
  
For a moment Annatar seemed unfocused, lost in contemplation, then the sly expression returned. He leaned forward to look past the King at the Regent. “So Rabêlozar,” he said creamily, “as I was hauled so painfully across town earlier in the day, I noticed your new temple to Zizzûn near the main square. I am wondering how you managed to find the funds to decorate the dome in gold leaf?”  
  
“There’s a temple to Zizzûn?” Ikar-lak asked in a sharp tone, breaking his mealtime vow of silence. “That is a peasant god, not the choice for a Númenórean outpost! A shrine to Manwë would be more seemly.”  
  
“You used gold leaf!” Pharazôn spluttered.  
  
“We, ah, had a most generous donor, my Lord,” Rabêlozar replied, his forehead glistening in the lamplight. “It’s all accounted for in the books. Ah, here come the dancers, and the next course as well. Perhaps we should talk about this at a more convenient time?” He mopped his forehead with a napkin.  
  
There was a flurry of movement and a quiet slap of feet on the mosaic floors as the bare-chested male musicians carrying their instruments and the female dancers in their colorful flaring skirts swirled into the room. Last came Sûla, scantily dressed and heavily painted. Oh thunder and lightning he looked delicious! Pharazôn wondered if he should rethink his plan. His page, Tigôn, followed and stood off to the side, hands behind his back.  
  
Pharazôn turned back to the priest. “I agree; this is not the time, Ikar-lak. Day after tomorrow we will take this up in Council. Does that suit your Holiness?”  
  
The priest rose suddenly, throwing his napkin down. “Pray, excuse us, Ar-Pharazôn. We have devotions to perform at this hour and portents to check. Staying to watch this,” his voice dripped with disdain, “is not in keeping with the pure thoughts required for our order.”  
  
“Well, I would not want anything to sully the purity of your thoughts,” Pharazôn replied. “I wonder how you avoid them when you’re with your mistress.”  
  
Ikar-lak’s jaw worked. He bowed and he and the three other priests left the table, striding off in a feather-robed procession of disapproval. Vultures indeed, Pharazôn thought. The priests were becoming much too haughty and had too much power. It was time he did something about it.  
  
Annatar leaned over and said, “Eagles eat carrion, you know. I’ve seen it many a time.”  
  
Pharazôn had a brief vision of Ikar-lak perched on the edge of a cliff, his clawed feet tearing a maggoty lamb in half.  
  
* * * *  
  
His body still humming from the kiss, Tigôn trailed some distance behind Sûla and the other performers as they threaded through the corridors. His tongue sought the zirâmîki’s lingering taste in his mouth, a combination of olives and sweet wine. Why had Sûla done that? What did it mean? Was Sûla enamored of him or just playing games? He felt intrigued and panicked all at once. He could still feel the weight of Sûla’s fragrant body against his, the pressure of his hips. Sûla glanced back at him once or twice, a question in his eyes, but Tigôn ignored him. He needed time to sort things out for himself. Best to stay away and not risk inflaming the situation further. It would have been better if their relationship had remained the way it was when he and Sûla played bones and traded innuendo at night in the King’s tent. That was innocent flirting. This had gone beyond that. But now Sûla’s taste teased Tigôn’s mouth and he didn’t think he would soon get over it.  
  
When Tigôn entered the banquet hall, he had a sense that all was not well. The atmosphere was positively prickling as the Bawîba Manô priests and the King glared at each other from opposite ends of the table. The other courtiers shifted uncomfortably. The only one that seemed unperturbed was the Zigûr, who sat next to the King as tall and serene as a well-fed cat on a stool. There was some exchange that Tigôn barely heard, then Manwë’s priests rose as one and stalked out, passing him as if he were a shadow. There seemed a collective sigh of relief once they left. What in Arda had happened?  
                                      
The rest of the guests turned expectantly towards the dancers who had arranged themselves decorously in a semi-circle near the tables. Sûla bowed low before the King, whose glower changed to a sudden pleased smile as he looked over his pretty slave. Perhaps Sûla's fears about being sent off to the Regent’s bed were unfounded. Although the Regent’s expression was decidedly greedy.  
  
Rabêlozar stood. He was short but broad of shoulder and even broader of belly. “Come closer, all of you,” he called to the performers, “and allow me to present you to Ar-Pharazôn, the mighty King of Númenor and to members of his court. They have been looking forward to your performance, so make sure you entertain them well.”  
  
The musicians and dancers all bowed low. Sûla went down on one knee. “As you command.”  
  
“You look magnificent,” the King said softly to Sûla. Tigôn could barely hear him. The King raised his eyes, “all of you.”  
  
“Don’t they,” Rabêlozar said. “They are the best in Umbar.” He introduced each performer, who bowed. The drummers tapped their drums when they were introduced and the flute players sounded a breathy note. “And tonight we are most pleased,” the Regent continued, “to have a guest performer, an Umbarian by birth, who has risen to a place of status as entertainer to the King, signifying the close ties our peoples have with one another.”  
  
“Are we all buggering the Umbarians, then,” one of the Counselors sitting near Tigôn whispered behind his hand.  
  
The Regent’s eyes flicked over Sûla. “We look forward to your performance.”  
  
“I will do my best to please you.” Sûla inclined his head, his kohl-rimmed eyes lively.  
  
Tigôn stood off to the side, feeling unwanted and out of place. The wonderful sight and smell of so much food was making his stomach growl. The King had said he was invited to the feast but he did not want to presume. He pressed a forearm against his stomach to stop the embarrassing noise and Lord Elendil looked over at him. He murmured something to the King.  
  
“Ah yes. Tigôn.” The King wrenched his gaze away from Sûla and beckoned. “So, you finally brought the entertainment. It took long enough that I thought you must have gone to Harad to fetch them.” There were some chuckles.  
  
Tigôn bowed. “They nearly were in Harad, my Lord, or so it seemed. But I persevered and here they are.”  
  
“Well done,” said the King, clearly in a good mood. “Come join us, Tigôn.” He gestured at the servants. “Go now, get my page some food and drink. He earned it in the battle.”  
  
A servant pulled a chair near the end of the table and Tigôn settled himself, mouthing ‘thank you’ at Elendil, who dipped his dark head courteously. It seemed that Elendil was looking out for him. ‘We Elendili need to come together now,’ Elendil had said to him when he’d asked Tigôn to spy on Annatar and the King. Tigôn felt ashamed that he had reported less than he could have about his conversations with Sûla. But he felt torn. More and more, he found that he did not want to pass on confidences that Sûla had shared with him. It felt like betrayal. But either way he was betraying someone. He signed. Politics was not a game he enjoyed playing. Rather too quickly, he downed the glass of sweet red wine that was offered him, then tucked into the full plate of delicious food, including a large fish with a creamy crab and bread stuffing. Its flavor burst like poetry onto his tongue, reminding him of the cooking at his parents’ house in Eldalondë. He felt a wave of homesickness. How he longed for his father’s gruff voice and for his brother’s teasing. He had been gone far too long.  
  
From where he sat at the table, he had a good view of the musicians opposite him as they arrayed themselves along the curving lines of a floor mosaic. The dancers froze into position in various poses and waited. A well-muscled man with a short beard rapped out a rhythm on a large drum clasped between his knees and then the rest joined in. The sound was vibrant, exciting, and Tigôn found himself tapping his foot, while he continued eating and drinking as if there would be no more tomorrow. Many other members of the King’s entourage relaxed into the beat, some slapping hands on their thighs. Ar-Pharazôn nodded at the Regent, who smiled back at him, all pink gums.  
  
The outer ring of women dancers began to move, undulating, grabbing their skirts and whirling them about, the colors red, blue, yellow with little mirrors sewn in the fabric that reflected the light of the lanterns overhead. They were all dark-haired, dark-eyed, with the golden skin and strong features of the Umbarians. They held their arms bent at an angle and then moved them fluidly, like ripples on a pond. As Lillu passed, her eye caught Tigôn’s and she winked. Tigôn found himself blushing again. All the while, Sûla remained frozen in place, arms at his sides, looking down at the floor. The rhythm increased and then the flutes joined in, playing in breathy harmony. The drummers looked at each other, laughing and enjoying themselves. Then suddenly they all stopped and so did the dancers, who turned towards Sûla at the center of the circle.  
  
As the drums began again, slowly Sûla began to move. First one arm, then the other. He sank down into a deep crouch, then his whole body undulated upwards. The way he moved was riveting; Tigôn found it impossible to look away. Stepping out as if stalking, Sûla came towards the women and danced with each in turn, palm to palm. They pushed towards each other and pulled away, looking in opposite directions and then the line shifted and Sûla went to the next one. The drumming increased, as did their speed. Then Sûla took Lillu by the hands and together they danced, laughing and flirting with each other. This went on for quite a while, back and forth over the floor. Finally, Sûla looked over at the audience. Both he and Lillu came towards the King. She danced at one end of the table and Sûla on the other. Standing squarely in front of Ar-Pharazôn, Sûla danced even more provocatively, moving his hips, rocking side to side, running his hands over his chest as he threw his head back, his eyes half-lidded, his face a picture of ecstasy. Then he leaned across the table, wetting his lips with his tongue and looking boldly at the King. Ar-Pharazôn reached out and palmed the back of his head, pulling him into a scorching kiss before finally letting him go.  
  
Embarrassed, Tigôn thought that if the priests hadn’t left before, they certainly would have now. This was not the King's private banquet hall at Armenelos. He wondered if Sûla liked sleeping with the King or if it was all an act. If so, he was certainly good at it. A worm of jealousy crawled into his heart. Next to the King, the Regent’s face was aglow with greed as he avidly watched the kiss. Annatar looked on in sly amusement, seemingly detached. Amandil and Elendil seemed tense. Sûla moved down the row of courtiers, smiling, flirting with his eyes as he slowly rotated, moving his head, shoulders, arms, legs and hips to the rhythm in a way that was beyond enticing. The ankle bracelets shivered their silver sounds. As he passed Izindor and Dulginzin, Sûla seemed to miss a beat for a moment, then tilting his head arrogantly, passed by them, turning to the guests on the other side of the table. Dulginzin’s face darkened and suddenly Tigôn was afraid for his friend.  
  
As Sûla continued his dance, Tigôn could feel the throb of interest between his legs. His face blushed hot. Perhaps Sûla was working his black magic on all of them? How else would he be so affected? Or maybe the beautiful Lillu and the thrilling music were making him feel like this. Helped by three cups of wine, Tigôn reflected that life at court wasn't so bad, really. Lillu paused before Elendil and ran her hand through his hair, while he blushed red. At least there were others who were discomfited.  
  
Then Sûla was standing in front of him. His light brown eyes caught Tigôn’s and briefly held his gaze. He arched his back and for a moment his flat belly with the gorgeous curved lines was right there, almost in Tigôn’s face. What was he doing? Tigôn feared he would fall over backwards, but instead, in a graceful motion, Sûla flipped upside down, balanced on his hands, then dropped back to his feet. There was laughter and applause. He glanced sidelong at Tigôn and then turned his bright smile on the courtier to his left. It was a relief when Sûla and Lillu danced back to the rest of the group, who had been continuing their part of the performance unnoticed. Tigôn looked around, hoping no one thought the brief moment of attention Sûla had paid him could be taken for anything more than part of his dance. He caught Elendil looking at him thoughtfully and Tigôn lifted a forkful of fish as if to say that food had been the only thing he was interested in. Then he noticed Annatar’s yellow eyes fixed on him with a sudden interest that made him uneasy.  
  
“Oh look,” he heard the counselor next to him exclaim. Sûla was engaged in a series of leaps, diving onto his hands and pushing off the floor in a beautiful arc, landing on his feet and immediately repeating the motion like a spring, continuing his flight across the mosaic floor, the tails of his long red sash whipping and floating behind him. Finally he landed upright and stood still, arms held out towards the audience, his chest heaving under the glittering mesh shirt. Everyone spontaneously broke out in applause.  
  
Tigôn was dumbfounded. He had no idea his friend could do something like that. After a moment, he joined in, clapping enthusiastically.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn rose to his feet still clapping, a pleased look of ownership on his face. “Excellent,” he called. “Come and have a drink with us. All of you.” But his gaze was on Sûla.  
  
The dancers came and bowed before the King as the servers poured out ceramic cups of wine. Rabêlozar, looking immensely relieved, urged them to come mingle with his guests. He sidled over to Sûla and complimented him on his dancing, taking every opportunity to put his hands on him. He had the servants bring a chair so that Sûla could sit at a place of honor between the Regent and the King. All the time Annatar watched the proceedings with a crafty expression.  
  
In the midst of all this, Dulginzin stood, swaying drunkenly. “My Lord,” he announced, “you promised me a gift and I’ve decided what I want.”  
  
“And what is that?” Ar-Pharazôn said, tearing his gaze away from his alluring zirâmîki to give Dulginzin an annoyed look.  
  
“I should like you to give me Sûla.”  
  
There was a collective gasp around the room. Izindor turned to look furiously at his foolhardy son. Sûla’s smile dropped away; his body went rigid. Tigôn had never seen his cocky friend look so panicked, even in the midst of the battle at Arzog’s Pass. Clearly there was more here than met the eye. What in Arda would the King do?  Tigôn sat stricken, awaiting his friend’s doom.  
  
* * * *  
zirâmîth – feminine form of zirâmiki. (zirâmîthin is plural) The word is formed from canon Adûnaic meaning beloved + young girl, but is not canon. Thanks to Malinornë for help coming up with the word.  
Lillu – Umbarian name, an elfscribe invention.  
  
************  



	17. A Taste of Bitter Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sûla pleads with Ar-Pharazôn not to send him to entertain Dulginzin and Annatar has a late night meeting with the King.

The half-eaten fish lay, mouth agape, on Tigôn’s plate. The guests fell silent. The musician, who had been playing the lyre quietly in the background, plucked one note with a ping and then ended the song abruptly. The only one at the table not realizing that he had committed a major gaff was Dulginzin, who stood weaving slightly, gesturing with his goblet. He repeated himself. “Give me Sûla, my Lord King. That is my wish.”  He thoroughly disrobed Sûla with his eyes as if he already owned him, and then sat down with a thump.  
  
Sûla’s gaze turned plaintively towards the King, who appeared most annoyed. “That is a bold request, son of Izindor,” Ar-Pharazôn said, stroking his chin, “and not one to my liking.”  
  
Lord Izindor’s head bobbed in an elaborate supplication. “My Lord, forgive my son’s brash mood. He is in his cups and not speaking his mind clearly. I am sure he did not mean a permanent gift, but merely a loan for the evening.  We are entertaining some private guests and would like a dancer.  Your zirâmîki’s performance tonight was most impressive. My son was, er, impressed. That’s all.”  
  
“No- uh,” Dulginzin began, but Izindor seized his son’s shoulder in a claw-like grip. “Yes, Dulginzin, that is the way of it,” he said.  
   
Drawing Sûla into the crook of his arm, Ar-Pharazôn fondled his hair as if he were a pet, then looked at Annatar, who blinked once, like some great lizard. The King nodded. “One night,” he said. “Know that it is a great favor I’m granting you. Be satisfied with it.”  He turned to the musicians, “Now then, strike up something lively.  This party is like a funeral.”  
  
Throughout the rest of the dinner Sûla sat stone-faced near the King and did not speak except when spoken to. When the group gave a final performance, he danced with precision and beauty, but the erotic fire had gone from him.  
  
Tigôn was upset on behalf of his friend, sensing that for some reason Sûla viewed this request as more dreadful than a night spent with the foul Regent, although the source of Sûla’s misgivings was unclear. To be sure Dulginzin was a nasty character but Sûla had escaped becoming the man’s property and he need only dance for the evening. What was wrong with that?  Apparently, there was more here than met the eye.  
  
The party broke up rather early, beginning with Amandil pleading exhaustion and a need to get an early start on ordering supplies for the return journey.  
  
“Indeed, it has been a long day,” the King said.  He offered a final toast to their great victory over the Haradrim, picked up by all the guests with cries of “Hear, hear.” Then he ordered the guards to escort Annatar back to his secure room and rose to depart for his own chambers. Stumbling slightly, the King put a hand on Annatar’s arm to steady himself. Coming along behind them, Tigôn noticed Annatar lower his eyelids alluringly, then incline his head and whisper something.  The King nodded.  What was that about?     
  
“My Lord,” Sûla said, coming up on the King’s other side, “may I attend you before bed?”  
  
“You may,” Ar-Pharazôn said gruffly.  
  
“Don’t tarry too long, King’s zirâmîki,” Dulginzin smirked, as he swaggered by. “There is a grand party waiting for you in our quarters.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn scowled at him. “Do not misuse your prize,” he said, and then stalked unsteadily out of the room.  
  
Sûla began to follow but Tigôn caught his arm. “Is everything well with you?” he whispered.  
  
Sûla laughed sarcastically, jerking his arm away. “Oh yes, everything is just fine. Dancing for the Lords of Arandor is an honor that I have not dreamed of.”     
  
“Perhaps when Izindor’s party is over, you might like to come by my room . . . to play a game of bones, just to relax, and to talk . . . if you wish,” Tigôn suggested. “I’m in the south wing, second floor, by the stairs.”  
  
“I rather doubt I’ll have the opportunity, Lordling, but it is most kind of you to offer,” Sûla replied. “Pray excuse me.”  He hastened after the King.    
  
Tigôn stood for a moment reflecting on injustice, while behind him the servants began loudly clearing the tables.  He decided that he wasn’t drunk near enough, paused by a serving table laden with wine jugs, and poured himself another large goblet.  On further reflection, he picked up the entire jug and carried it and the cup back to his room.  
  
* * * *  
  
As soon as the bedroom door closed behind the King, Sûla felt as if his knees had turned to sand.  He knew well what being alone in Dulginzin’s chambers would entail and the thought filled him with horror. Perhaps he could still entice the King into changing his mind.  He sidled up to Ar-Pharazôn, put one hand on the broad chest and stroked the King’s face with the other, feeling the rasp of incoming beard on his fingers.  “Was my dancing not pleasing to you this evening, my Lord?”  
  
“It was indeed. Very,” Ar-Pharazôn said gruffly. He caught Sûla’s hand, pressing it to his lips, and then drew him close, kissing him soundly on the mouth. “So tempting, you are,” he said. Then, with a sigh, he turned away and plopped himself down in his chair.  “But I fear I am tired from the journey and I have promised you elsewhere tonight. So there we are.”  
  
“Do you relish sharing me with another?” Sûla asked, pouting. He sank down to the floor.  
  
“No, I do not,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  
  
“You know what Dulginzin will require of me, my Lord?”  
  
“Huh,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted.  He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.  
  
Encouraged, Sûla continued, “You are the Great King.  You can do anything you wish.  If this is distasteful for you, you could just wave a hand and negate it.”  
  
“A King cannot go back on his word, Sûla, or risk losing his subjects’ loyalty.  We are constrained in ways that apparently you do not understand.  So, it’s done then. Help me into something more comfortable.”  
  
Sûla pulled off the King’s shoes, then removed his outer tunic and shirt.  As his hand drifted over the laces in Ar-Pharazôn’s leggings, Sûla gave him a sly look.  “Perhaps you would like something to relax you for bed?” he suggested.  Before the King could give him an order, one way or another, he knelt between the King’s outreached legs and fumbled open the ties on the pouch at his crotch. The organ was soft and wormlike as Sûla took it in his mouth. He worked it until it rose and fattened encouragingly. Surely, Sûla thought, this might make the King remember his worth.  
  
“Ah, yes, that’s good,” the King sighed above him, spreading his legs further.  He put his hand on Sûla’s head and helped the bobbing motion.  However, for some reason the King’s yard resisted Sûla’s best efforts, even more than normal.  In desperation, Sûla tried every trick he knew, flicking his tongue on the soft head while using his hand on the shaft, and then taking him deeply down his throat.  Finally Ar-Pharazôn came, in a few weak spurts.  He quickly went soft, even though Sûla kept mouthing him.    
  
“That’s enough,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted. “You may go.”  
  
“You do not wish me to warm your bed then?” Sûla asked, desperately. “Remember how cold it is here at night? I could spend but a few hours away with the Lords of Arandor and then come back?”  
  
“I know what you’re trying to do.” Ar-Pharazôn wagged a forefinger at him. “But it won’t work.  I promised Izindor that you’d spend the night. That means the whole night until dawn.”  
  
Sûla felt his insides fluttering, caving in on themselves. He could not help himself, even though he knew pleading was very unwise.  Hugging the King’s knees, he said, “Please, my Lord, please!  Don’t make me do this.  Don’t send me from your side.  I cannot bear it!”  
  
“Sûla!” the King growled warningly. “Remember what I told you earlier. Consider this your punishment for disobeying me and be grateful it’s only a distasteful evening with Izindor and his idiot sons.  It might have been worse.  I was going to make your punishment a night with the Regent – a man who is as pungent as he is ugly.”  
  
“Please Sire, send me to the Regent, or flog me, if you wish to punish me, but not this.” Sûla ran his hand up the inside of the King’s thigh.  “Has my service been unworthy?  My Lord?”  
  
Pharazôn sighed. “Your service has been exemplary, except for disobeying me the other night – and your behavior now.”  The King attempted to rise, but Sûla clung to his legs like a burr. “What is the matter with you?” the King growled. “This is most unseemly.  Let go!”  He put his hand on Sûla’s forehead and shoved him backwards to the floor. Sûla’s elbow connected hard on the tile and he suppressed a yelp. “Do as you’re told and do not dare question my decisions!” Ar-Pharazôn roared. “I will accept only so much insolence, even from my favorite cupbearer!”  He made a move to stand, but then fell back into the chair with a groan. “Curse the wine,” he said.  
  
“Am I still your favorite, my Lord?” Sûla asked miserably, holding his throbbing elbow. He sat up, biting his lip and looking pleadingly at the King.  
  
“You are quite lovely. You know you are,” the King said. “But I’ve made a promise and I won’t gainsay it.”  
  
“My Lord . . . ,” Sûla begged.  
  
“Not another word!  Not one! This is what comes of indulging you too much.  If I hear any more from you, I truly shall give you to Dulginzin – permanently!”  
  
Sûla hung his head, defeated.  Wild badgers clawed his gut, seeking to overwhelm him.  He tried to calm himself. How bad could it be?  He’d been raped before. He could endure it again. Perhaps if he lay limply and did not fight, Dulginzin would be merciful and quick. He wouldn’t dare really hurt him, would he?  But Sûla was not able to quell the feeling that he was drowning. Breathing rapidly, he stood and bowed his head. “Forgive me. In all things, I am your obedient servant, my Lord.”    
  
“That’s better,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted. “You may go. Oh,” he said, his voice sounding rather too casual, “before you go to the chambers of the Lords of Arandor, I want you to stop by the room where the Zigûr is staying and deliver a message to his guards.  Tell them to bring him here.  I have some matters to discuss that will not wait.”  
  
Sûla’s head snapped up. The Zigûr. Oh, why hadn’t he thought of him earlier? Perhaps Annatar would help him. He hid his smile with his hand.  “Yes, my Lord, whatever you wish.”  
  
* * * *  
  
The foot that had been briefly crushed against the side of the wain that afternoon was giving Mairon some trouble. He favored it with a limp as the guards escorted him down the darkened hallways towards the chamber that doubled as his prison. Strange that it did not seem to be healing as quickly as normal.  If it hadn’t been for this swollen reminder of his humiliation this afternoon, Mairon would have relished his triumph this evening.  A subtle flash, a nudge here and there, and he’d already set events in motion that would flower to his advantage, sooner or later.  In addition to his pained foot, he was being afflicted by a slight blurring in his vision. There it was again. Could it be the wine?  
  
“Quit dawdling,” one of the guards said, giving him a shove. This one was new, not broken in sufficiently. Mairon shot him an image of a back bloodied at a whipping post, and the man jerked away from him.  
  
“Have a care, mîki, my foot was injured,” Mairon snarled. “I suspect the King will wish you to see to it.  I’ll need some morthul steeped in hot water and some bandages to wrap it up.”  
  
The guards eyed each other dubiously.  The new one laughed.  “At this time of night? We’d need to wake a healer for that.”  Mairon hissed at him and he ducked his head.  
  
“Very well. You take charge of him,” the man said and retreated down the hall.  The other guard came in the room, made a thorough check, banging on the bronze-sheathed walls, and then left.  Mairon looked at the sumptuously appointed room with its elaborate tapestries. And then back at the thin bronze paneling. Alloys were supposed to contain sorcery. It remained to be seen if they would.  
   
Suddenly Mairon felt dizzy.  Sinking down into a chair, he noticed a strange movement in one of the tapestries decorating the wall.  It depicted a battle with the wretched elves and a dragon, most probably that villain Glaurung. Yes, there it was again, the dragon seemed to blur and shift.  He felt a lurch in his stomach as if the jellied eels were coming alive.  Had they not agreed with him? By Angainor, he was never sick!  He pressed his hands to his eyes.  Around him, he heard a faint whispering sound, smelled something burning, as if the dragon was really spewing its sulfurous flame. A strange flutter erupted in his chest.  He stood and walked several paces, turned and saw himself sitting in the chair, hunched over slightly, hands covering his face.  
  
The shock momentarily rendered him speechless.  Then the air rang with a string of curses uttered in Black Speech.  He took a step towards the self on the chair and it dropped its hands, looked at him and laughed. It was most uncanny!  He felt a drawing sensation in his gut as if someone was pulling on a chain affixed to his navel, and suddenly he found himself sitting in the chair. A wave of anger rushed through him. No, it couldn’t be! Was the spell reversing itself?  It wasn’t supposed to work like that!  He racked his memory for anything that had been in the Enchanter’s scroll. What a stupid oversight not to have arranged to bring it with him!  But then, the Númenórean fools would have only taken it if he had.  
      
The door opened and the guard stuck his head inside. “What’s the matter with you?” he yelled.  
  
“I need the morthul now,” Mairon snapped.  
  
“Narûkh has gone for it,” the guard said. “It won’t come sooner than he does.”  
  
Mairon waved his hand and the door banged shut in the guard’s face. He did not like feeling this shaken and out of control.  He recalled a similar feeling of panic when he’d attempted to ride his horse into the caves several days ago.  Clearly, something was amiss with his borrowed body.  Morthul might ameliorate his problem but he would need to obtain the ingredients to concoct his brew again. And some of them were going to be hard to come by.  This did not put him in a good mood, not at all.  
  
There was a knock on the door.  Good, the guard had been terribly efficient.  “Come,” he snarled.  
  
The door opened and Sûla quietly entered, shutting it deliberately behind him. Ah yes. The boy was right on time.  
  
“My Lord,” Sûla said. “The King calls for you to attend him this evening.” He came towards Mairon, sank down on his knees and lifted cupped hands in supplication.  “Before you leave, please, I have a favor to beg.”  
  
Mairon felt his quivery insides return to a purring satisfaction.  “Let me guess what you want,” he said with a smirk.  “A new wolf-skin to wrap your pretty paramour in.”  
  
The boy looked confused.  “What, my Lord?”  
  
“Oh, don’t be dense,” Mairon snapped. “I am quite aware of your feelings for the King’s messenger. You had better beware, affection like that will only bring you trouble.” He got up, paced towards the wall and then sat on a divan underneath the tapestry, pressing his hand to his forehead. Shaky.  
  
Still on his knees, Sûla swiveled to face him. “You are mistaken,” he said. “There is no affection there.  I had a falling out with him. I saved his life at Arzog’s Pass and he couldn’t even thank me.”  
  
“Ingratitude is quite common among the Númenórean lords,” Mairon replied.  “But you made a play for him during your dance tonight. I saw it. I’m warning you now that it is a weakness and will make you vulnerable.”  
  
“I assure you, I have no feelings for anyone other than for the King,” Sûla said with a flash of his eyes. “My Lord, I have need of your skills.”  
  
“Come then, you need not worship me on your knees,” Mairon said.  Not yet at any rate. “Sit here with me.  I feel for your plight. That young Lord of Arandor is a nasty piece of work.”  
  
Sûla rose and sat tentatively on the divan.     
  
“It’s unfortunate that the King felt duty-bound to honor Dulginzin’s request, isn’t it?” Mairon continued. “But that’s the sort of man Ar-Pharazôn is.  Someone who sticks by his principles, rather than letting sentiment cloud his judgement, most especially sentiment for a bed partner.”  
  
Sûla bit his lip.  The boy looked so young and lost that if Mairon could feel pity, he might have some for him, but such weaknesses had long ago been purged from him.  
  
“My Lord Annatar,” Sûla said. “I simply cannot . . .” he choked slightly and put a hand to his throat. “Please, you know what he did to me before. I used the spell you gave me to punish him and it worked beautifully, but I fear it will not be enough for this situation.”  
  
Mairon nodded. “I have felt you speak the spell three times now. It is powerful magic, not to be used unless you are in dire need.”  
  
“You felt it?” The light brown eyes darted up to look anxiously at him. The boy licked his lips. “But I have been ordered to spend the whole night.  I can’t continue freezing him every few minutes, can I?  I’m sure to get caught. And much as I should like it, I cannot cut his throat.  Too many people, including the King, know my whereabouts. Is there a way to prolong the spell? Will you help me?”  
  
“I think I’ve helped you rather much of late and so far asked nothing in return,” Mairon said cooly. “Tell me, why should I do so again?” He leaned back against the divan, interlacing his fingers.  
  
“You said you’d ask for a favor at some point. I am ready to fulfill my bargain. What do you wish?” Sûla asked fearfully. “I do not have much to give.” He put a hand to the dragon ornament curling along his upper arm.        
  
Mairon smiled. “But you do,” he said, and lifted Sûla’s chin with one finger.    
  
The boy seemed to relax. “Oh.” He edged closer. His hand strayed to Mairon’s thigh and he leaned forward, his lips hovering near enough that Mairon could feel the boy’s soft breath. The sensations were most pleasant. Such lovely lips. Mairon felt interest prickling within, a feeling he had not indulged in many a year.  But no, not yet.  
  
“You mistake me, young one,” Mairon said. “Much as I find you charming, we have agreed, have we not, that such an indulgence would be most . . . unwise.”  
  
“Oh,” the boy said again, sounding rather disappointed.  Mairon hid his smile.  “Then what?” Sûla sat back warily.    
  
“I strongly suspect that soon the King will wish me to prove my claims regarding the elixir of youth.  I will need someone to procure the substances to brew it and help in its production.  I think you are worthy of that honor.”  
  
“Is that all?” Sûla said, with a harsh laugh.  He tossed his head.  “You’ll have to ask the King’s permission.  Although I doubt he’ll refuse you. He seems in a great mood to loan me out these days.”  The lovely eyes veiled as he looked away.  Bitterness.  Good.  
     
“Rather trusting, are you not?” Mairon chuckled. “You have agreed too quickly without really knowing what I’m asking.” Sûla’s alarmed glance flicked to meet his and Mairon chuckled again.  “Do not worry, I have no wish to harm such a promising assistant. Be assured, it is a fair bargain.  So, you would like to render Dulginzin harmless.” Mairon tapped his lip with a finger.  “It so happens that I have ordered some of the very thing you need.  The guard should be here with it shortly.  Morthul, a narcotic.  Rubbed on the skin, it dulls pain.  Infused in a liquid and taken internally, it causes a deep sleep. I can give you the magic to alter its structure to intensify the effect. You’ll have to put it in his drink.  That shouldn’t be hard; he was swilling enough tonight.” Mairon nodded.  “Yes, I think that will do nicely. He’ll sleep like the dead and wake up in the morning feeling as if he has a terrible hangover. No one will know.”  
  
Sûla’s face lit. “Yes, that is precisely what I need!”  
  
“He’ll have bad dreams,” Mairon warned.  
  
“Even better,” Sûla replied.  
  
“There may be unforeseen effects.”  
  
“‘Tis no matter. Tell me the words!” Sûla declared, his face hardened with the lure of power.  
  
Like leading a lamb to the sacrifice, Mairon thought and was suddenly reminded of his first seduction of Dolgu many years ago in this very palace. Mairon shifted towards the King’s cupbearer with a soft rustle of silk. “The guard will bring the morthul shortly.  Just as before, you must take the spell from my lips.  Be careful of my foot now.”     
  
****************  
  
Whatever the sorcerer had given him with that kiss, it caused Sûla to feel as if he was striding down the hall wearing big boots, although in fact his feet were bare. Shadows cast by hanging lamps fled before him. He almost looked forward to matching wits with the odious Dulginzin, now that he had the Zigûr’s tincture and the spell to make it strong. He patted the ceramic vial hidden in his sash. But how to administer it without being noticed? And what then? What if there were others in the room? There were still many things that could go awry.  
  
Sûla rapped on the door to the chambers where the Lords of Arandor were ensconced. A servant, a small, cruel-looking man with a scar on his neck, answered it and led him into a sitting room.  
  
Like a great bear, Lord Dulginzin was sprawled on a cushioned hassock near a crackling fire. Except for a pair of leggings, he was nearly naked, sporting a well-muscled chest covered with dense black fur. His strange wall-eyed brother was lying on a cushion on the floor playing a clay flute, rather tunelessly.  
  
“Ah, here he is, finally,” Dulginzin growled, gesturing with a large, bejeweled goblet. “You certainly took your time in getting here.”  
  
Sûla bowed deeply. “The King required my services.” Already he was feeling less certain of himself than he had been a few moments before.  
  
“I can well imagine he did after your performance s’evening,” Dulginzin said, lips curving into a cruel smirk. “I will require your ‘services’ as well and now you cannot say me nay. It will be an enjoy, enjoyable night.” He turned his head towards his brother. “By Ossë’s crack, Mirandor, that’s enough!” The bizarre tootling ceased. “Stand not by the door, zirâmîki. Come here.”  
  
“Where is your father? And your guests?” Sûla replied, heart thudding, as he approached warily.  
  
“The old man’s in bed . . . with a headache,” Dulginzin chortled. “He cannot handle drink. And the guests are gone. You’ll have an easy time of it, since you need only dance for me.” He snapped his fingers at the servant. “Give him the wine.” The man hastened to do as he was bid. Sûla noticed that he had burn marks on his arms.  
  
Schooling a grimace, Sûla started to sit down on a nearby stool. The last thing he wanted was more drink that might impair his wits.  
  
“No, o’er here,” Dulginzin said, patting his thighs.  
  
“My Lord has said that I am only required to dance, not to sport with you,” Sûla replied, and immediately regretted how haughty he had sounded. Dulginzin sprang from his chair and backhanded him across the face, sending him sprawling to the floor. Face stinging, Sûla glared up at him. “Wrong, zirâmîki,” Dulginzin said. “I require your full services.”  
  
“Dulgi,” Mirandor drawled, ““didn’t Fa-ather s-say not to leave any v-v-isible marks?”  
  
Dulginzin turned on his brother, who raised his hands over his head to fend him off. “I have no problem leaving visible marks on you, idiot,” he said. He beckoned to the servant who held a large ceramic wine cup by both handles. “He’s stiff as a board,” Dulginzin said, indicating Sûla. “Give that to him.”  
  
“If you please, my Lord,” Sûla said. “I would prefer none. It affects my dancing skills.”  
  
“You may not refuse me anything, tonight,” Dulginzin said. “Tonight, if I say drink, you will.”  
  
“I still have the King’s favor,” Sûla replied. “You’d be wise to remember that.” He stood and pointedly rubbed his stinging face.  
  
“You think I’m afraid of old Ar-Pharazôn, the Impo - impotent?” Dulginzin said with a drunken slur. “Well, I’m not. Ask any of those dead Haradrim if they were ‘fraid o’ me. Ask my brother.”  
  
“I swear to you if you hurt me, the King will string you up by your balls,” Sûla replied. “Especially once he hears about your reference to his prowess, which I happen to know, is considerable.”  
  
Mirandor started snickering again. Dulginzin lunged forward drunkenly, and grabbed Sûla by the arms. However impaired he might be, he was still hideously strong; Sûla struggled against him to no avail. Dulginzin held his arms by the elbows and jerked them up at an angle behind his back. It hurt. Greatly. “You’ll say nothing to the King. Nothing,” Dulginzin hissed. “Or I’ll kill you – in some dark corridor where no one’ll suspect. I promise you that. Mirandor, pull his head back.” Sûla felt a sudden hard jerk on his hair and pins of fire erupted along his scalp. “Now Pâroth,” Dulginzin addressed the servant, “make him drink it.”  
  
The servant loomed close enough for Sûla to see hair in his nostrils, then the courtesan felt the edge of the cup pressed against his lips. Sûla struggled some more, and wine spilled down his neck onto the metal mesh shirt. For a moment he worried about returning the garment to Lillu without damage and then his jaw was jerked open and more liquid poured down his throat. Coughing and spluttering, he attempted to swallow but it was more than he could take. His throat burned. He heard Dulginzin's deep laughter. By the gods, he couldn’t breathe! He choked again, violently, and thrashed so much, it felt like his arms were being wrenched from their sockets. The cup finally emptied. Dulginzin threw him, gasping like a beached fish, face forward on the floor. There were no words for this drowning sensation. He felt out of control, hysterical. He coughed and coughed again so hard he thought he would vomit.  
  
“It would go much better for you, Umbarian, if you followed my orders,” Dulginzin said, his voice coming through the burning haze. “Just because you bend over for the King, you think you can wave your arse at the rest of us. You’ll learn differently tonight. Now it looks like you’ve spilt wine on the floor. How careless of you. Lick it up.”  
  
Shaking, Sûla slowly lowered his face to the tiled floor and began lapping up the puddled wine, feeling the rasp of dirt on his tongue. At least this was better than what else Dulginzin might be doing to him. He wished he had as much power as the Zigûr so that he could summon an army of frenzied, biting squirrels to put down the man’s pants. Once he managed to give Dulginzin the morthul, ah then the tables would turn! But doubt began consuming his thoughts. Lord Dullard did not seem constrained by fear of the King. Clearly he was drunk already and not in his right mind. What if the draught didn’t work? What if the fiend killed him before he could administer it?  
  
“That’s better,” Dulginzin said. “But you missed a spot.” He laughed again, the sound like a rumbling war engine.  
  
Sûla cleaned up the final stain and coughed some more. His tongue felt like sandpaper. He licked it across his forearm to get rid of the grit.  
  
“Now, you need t’earn your keep,” Dulginzin said. “You’ll dance for me. Like you did for th’ King. Do it jus’ as nice. Pâroth, get the musicians.”  
  
The servant bowed and left. Dulginzin fell back into his chair, limbs akimbo. “Naked,” he said.  
  
“What?” Sûla said, lifting his head to look at him.  
  
“You will dance naked. Take the fripperies off—artfully. I’ll be judging you. It will not go well for you if you fail to please me.” Dulginzin smirked.  
  
*********  
  
Once Sûla left, Pharazôn began to have doubts about whether or not he should have summoned Annatar to his chambers this evening. Aphanuzîr’s words to him just after the banquet were causing him to second guess himself and he didn’t like it.  
  
Pacing like a beast in a cage, the King stroked his raspy face and contemplated calling a barber, then decided it was too late for that. Curse it, he could still hear Aphanuzîr’s softly-spoken warning. “If you value my advice as you used, Pharazôn,” his old mentor said, “you will keep that creature at bay. He is a crow in swan’s plumage, appearing fair, when we know that his heart, if indeed he has any, is most black.”  
  
Pharazôn had nodded and said, “You needn’t fear. I know what he is. I only plan to use his knowledge to our advantage. After all, I tied him to a cross today and paraded him through the streets of Umbar. I know he hated that and yet he did nothing to prevent it. I believe he is not the all-powerful being we feared he was. I’m not intimidated by him.”  
  
Aphanuzîr had looked at him with that captain’s squint, the one used when examining the sky for signs of a squall, then he dipped his head. “That is encouraging to hear. Good night, my Lord.” And he left.  
  
So Aphanuzîr feared he was weak. Curse him, it was not true! Pharazôn had already shown he was capable of standing up to the sorcerer. Annatar was not going to trick him into anything he did not wish to do. That he could promise himself. He felt better. He put a hand to his forehead. The effect of the dinner wine was wearing off, but it was giving him a vague headache. He poured himself a cup of water and drank it.  
  
The door opened and two guards escorted Annatar into the room. When he entered, it was as if the air suddenly crackled with the sound of a distant forest fire. His appearance—that tall, willowy form, that exquisite elfin face, surrounded by the fall of silken red hair —belied the sensation of power. It made Pharazôn feel young, and foolhardy, as if he were sneaking out of the palace for an illicit assignation. With a wave of his jeweled hand, he commanded the guards to send for some food and drink and then wait outside. The door clicked shut behind them—ominously.  
  
Annatar’s mouth worked a moment, as if hiding a sneer. It was disrespectful and Pharazôn opened his mouth to say so, but then the sorcerer bowed gracefully. “You sent for me,” he said.  
  
“You intimated that the Regent was skimming funds. I want to know what you know,” Pharazôn said, thinking it best to dispense with airy niceties.  
  
“That will require some conversation,” Annatar said. “Are you going to invite me to sit? My foot hurts.”  
  
“Your foot?” Pharazôn echoed.  
  
“Injured at the end of that delightful ride you orchestrated through Umbar. My Lord,” Annatar said.  He lifted his robe to show sandaled feet, one with a bandage wrapped about the instep.  
  
Pharazôn indicated two cushioned chairs by the fire. “Sit then.” They settled themselves. “I did not know you would be injured,” Pharazôn averred. “I assure you it was more show for the Umbarians.”  
  
“Never fear, it will heal quickly if I can get the proper herbs.” Annatar combed his hair back from his face in a positively feline gesture.  
  
“You shall have them,” Pharazôn said.  
  
“Well then, you have cut to the chase and so shall I. As far as Rabêlozar is concerned, my spies have kept me well-informed.”  
  
“You said he skimmed taxes to create the temple. Did he take any for himself?”  
  
“Assuredly. He has been living well, no doubt about it.”  
  
“I’ll have Azgarad go through his books tomorrow,” Pharazôn said.  
  
“I believe you’ll find his books in good order. Rabêlozar is not fool enough to leave behind evidence in black and white.”  
  
“I’ll torture him then,” Pharazôn concluded.  
  
“That could work.” Annatar nodded. “But he does not know the details himself. The key lies with his exchequer, one Ephalak by name. He knows where the money went. Chain him overnight within sight of the forge, apply a hot brand or two, then promise him a position in your court if he confesses. You’ll have your evidence with no loss of time, which you can ill afford in your scramble to leave these shores.”  
  
“Indeed,” Pharazôn said, with a lift of his eyebrows. He rose, opened the door, and instructed the guards to arrest the Regent’s exchequer, Ephalak, and put him in the dungeon.  
  
When Pharazôn returned and settled himself again, he said, “We had suspected the Regent was playing us, but there was no evidence. Your spies seem better informed than ours.”  
  
“Knowledge is the key to power, my Lord,” Annatar said. “I learned that at the knee of the Master.”  
  
“From Morgoth,” Pharazôn observed, with a shudder.  
  
“So the elves called him. Do you believe their propaganda? Was there a choice for men between Melkor’s brethren and Melkor himself? There is much you don’t know about Eru and the Valar, his servants. Although your priests sing their praises, how have they ever repaid your devotion?”  
  
“They created Númenor for us,” Pharazôn said.  
  
“Do you believe the lie that they did it to reward your valor against their Enemy? No. It was to keep their eyes on you. Tell me, O King. Why did they allow my Master free reign in Endórë, and not interfere for thousands of years while countless elves and men lost their lives? Why then, once they’d defeated him, would they create a haven within sight of Elvenhome, allow the elves of Valinor to freely visit you, some say to spy on you, and yet you are never permitted to visit them? Why did Eru grant endless life to the elves and not to men? These are among many conundrums that cause one to wonder about the benevolent intentions of Eru and his minions.”  
  
Pharazôn nodded. Curse him, Annatar made sense. These very questions had troubled the wise of Númenor for years. But he had his doubts. Pharazôn said, “I am well-read in our history and I know what you and your foul Master did, spreading your reign of terror. The Valar never did anything like that. Why should I choose to ally myself with you?”  
  
“We must be strong to maintain order and it comes at a price. There are always those who fight the dominant power, whoever it is, thinking to further their own petty interests. I know you understand what I'm saying. In putting down the Haradrim, you are ensuring that they do not disturb the peace of Umbar. I have the same interests as you. When I heard that you had come to Endórë threatening battle, it occurred to me, sitting on my throne in Barad-dûr, that we are both better served by uniting our forces, rather than grinding each other down, while our true enemies, the Valar and the elves, sit back and laugh at our folly.”  
  
His voice had grown strident and hard. Pharazôn’s blood prickled with it. Suddenly he relived the moment of ecstasy that he’d felt, buried deep inside the sorcerer, blood slippery against his loins. His brow broke out in a sweat and he was relieved when the door opened and servants bustled in carrying trays laden with a light supper, a meat pie, cheese, and some more mulled wine. They arrayed a low table with plates and cutlery and left. Pharazôn was still quite full from dinner but now had a desire for more drink.    
  
“You have not responded to what I said,” Annatar replied, languidly cutting a wedge of the cheese and lifting it to his mouth. His tongue slid along his sumptuous lips. Pharazôn forced himself to look away.  
  
“I think I have already acknowledged that I believe it wise to make such an alliance,” Pharazôn said. “You are here after all. Your spirit could be wandering headless about the wastelands.”  
  
“I suppose I have to thank you for that,” Annatar said, seemingly amused.  
  
“We have much to offer one another,” Pharazôn continued. “I was most impressed with your designs for the war engines. I have not seen the like before. Such power and precision. We could never have routed the Haradrim so easily without them.”  
  
“You have the plans I brought with me. I can teach your engineers how to construct the engines from them,” Annatar said. “We can build more from the models. When do you plan to set sail?”  
  
“We should be ready within a fortnight.”  
  
“Are you still determined to carry me off to your island?” Annatar asked.  
  
“I have not changed my mind,” Pharazôn replied. “The better to keep a watchful eye on you. I do not trust you, you know.”  
  
“That is obvious. I hope, in time, that you'll think better of me.” Annatar's eyes gleamed at him.  
  
“And now,” the King continued. “I come to another of my questions. What do you require to brew the elixir of youth?”  
  
Annatar sat back in his chair. He took a sip of wine. “Do you feel a need for a restorative, my Lord?”  
  
“I should like to try it before we set sail, to know if you are speaking the truth, or merely seeking to cozen me.”  
  
“I am not sure we have the time. The brew requires many exotic substances.”  
  
“I think that you are dissembling,” Pharazôn growled. “I can send messengers to procure whatever you need.”  
  
“I require an assistant,” Annatar said, wiping his lips daintily with a napkin.  
  
“That’s easy enough,” Pharazôn said.  
  
“Then you won’t mind loaning me your little cupbearer. I have found him to be quick and efficient in serving my food and in attending to my back, after you flogged me.”  
  
Pharazôn had a flash of Sûla’s tawny hands pressing a linen bandage over Annatar’s fair white buttocks, laced with red stripes. Ah yes, another reason to take Annatar back to Armenelos with him. Suddenly, he had a desire to watch him performing with Sûla and the other zirâmîkin. An inspiring thought. Certainly that would keep the Dark Lord in his place.  
  
The King nodded. “Sûla can assist you with your endeavors.” He hesitated, his body pounding in anticipation. “I want to know,” he began. Annatar widened his eyes, inviting the question. “What did you do the last time I . . . when I had you. You did something that made the climax feel remarkable.”  
  
“I did nothing special,” Annatar said, with a shake of his fiery head. “I told you. You merely felt the power of a Maia.”  
  
“Was that all?” Pharazôn said. “If so, the Maiar have missed their calling as the world’s most enticing courtesans.”  
  
“By Angband, another talent unrealized,” Annatar chuckled.  
  
Pharazôn laughed, the warmth of the wine buzzing in his veins. “I wouldn’t waste it,” he said, lowering his head and looking up at the sorcerer. “But if you can do that on your own, why have I a need for the elixir of youth?”  
  
“I suspect it may be inconvenient to attempt to rule a kingdom while you are continuously thrust up my backside.” Annatar’s eyes crinkled wickedly. “My potion will rejuvenate you in all areas of your life, not just love-making. It is like a taste of Aman.” He pulled a lock of crimson hair through his hand. “The elixir of youth will give you stamina, make you feel like an adolescent again.”  
  
“And what will be the price of this . . . gift?” Pharazôn asked.  
  
“Ah, a shrewd bargainer. I’ll be plain, then. I want a position in your court as a Counselor. Grant me a seat on the Council of the Sceptre. I could be most useful to you and your kingdom. Remember my expertise in fighting battles.”  
  
“I shall have to think about it,” Pharazôn replied.  
  
“Do not think on it too long,” Annatar said. “I’ll not lift a finger to aid you, otherwise.”  
  
How dare he! In sudden fury, the King rose and seized the sorcerer’s dark robe around his neck, hauling him to his feet. “You are not in a position to defy me,” Pharazôn snarled. “Just remember that.” Making the Zigûr stand was a mistake as he was half a head taller and suddenly Pharazôn found it intimidating. He gripped harder making the sorcerer feel his strength.  
  
“I have not forgotten,” Annatar replied smoothly. “But you do not frighten me. You have no idea, do you, my King, what my relationship with Melkor was? I grew accustomed to . . . rough usage. The secret is, I enjoy it.”  
  
Once more, heat flared and pulsed through Pharazôn, until he did not think he could become any harder.  
  
“Power is an irresistible lure for me,” Annatar continued in his soft voice, now like the purring of a great cat. Pharazôn’s hands relaxed on the Zigûr's clothing. Annatar drew closer, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “I think we shall get on well together. What do you think?”  
  
Suddenly, the air seemed perfumed with the heady aroma of alfirin.  
  
**********  
  
Dance naked! Sûla thought in a panic. Oh, this was not good. How would he conceal the ceramic vial in his sash if he had to take it off and walk around in nothing but his skin? This was going to be tricky. When the two drummers and the flute player entered and began their compelling beat, Sûla slowly began unlacing the side of his shirt, while staring at Dulginzin. I’m going to get you, you bastard, he thought as he smiled at him and arched an eyebrow. I’m going to make you fall deeply asleep and then tie off your balls so you castrate yourself. He licked his lips lasciviously and Dulginzin’s mouth curled up at the corners in a self-satisfied smirk.  
  
With the mailshirt held in his arms like a partner, Sûla danced it to one corner of the room; turning his back on Dulginzin, he set it down. Then undulating his arse provocatively and looking over his shoulder at his nemesis, he began unknotting the sash. Carefully, he clasped the vial, hiding it in one hand, while unwinding the sash from his hips with the other. From watching sleight-of-hand magicians in the palace he knew that people pay attention to distractions. He threw the sash in the air, letting it drift down, while quickly slipping the vial under a fold in the mailshirt. That would have to do. Gracefully, he plucked the sash off the floor, turned, coming back towards Dulginzin in a rolling hip walk with the sash draped about his shoulders. Stopping just out of Dulginzin’s reach, he slowly unlaced the wide-legged black trousers and pushed them off his hips, undulating like a snake shedding its skin. As usual, there was some awkwardness in getting the trousers over his feet, but he managed and then began to dance in earnest.  
  
The fire felt warm on his naked backside. Dulginzin’s eyes gleamed as he watched him. This was no different than dancing in one of the King’s banquets, Sûla told himself, although now he derived no pleasure from the obvious lust he was provoking. He couldn’t bear the young lord of Arandor’s gloating expression and wanted to run screaming from the room. To distract himself, he looked away, imagining that it was Tigôn sitting in the chair instead of Dulginzin.  
  
At first Tigôn would give him that wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare, innocent and somewhat disapproving, just as he had looked at him in the solarium when he was practicing. But then the messenger’s expression would turn hungry. Sûla would know when he had provoked the reaction he desired. He would dance until Tigôn was frenzied, stiff and dripping for him, then he would grind himself into Tigôn’s lap, listen for the gasp as he swallowed him up, took his body into his own, and relived the feel of his mouth against his. Tigôn’s heart would beat rapidly against Sûla’s chest, as he felt the page’s body responding, melting under him. The image caused him to stiffen and bounce, embarrassing him. Not here. He had become carried away.  
  
“Look at you,” Dulginzin chortled, pointing at his erection, and Sûla felt an unaccustomed emotion, shame. “Stupid boy, that wine had a love charm in it. The kind that make the loins burn. You’ll want me now. You won’t be able to help yourself.”  
  
“Did you think you needed a love charm when you are so appealing yourself, my Lord?” Sûla asked peevishly.  
  
Dulginzin merely smirked.  
  
Whirling the trousers about like a banner, Sûla spun in circles about the room. When he arrived at his pile of clothes, he dropped them on top of the mailshirt, then he danced back towards Dulginzin, pulling the sash from around his shoulders and using it as a curtain for his undulating loins.  
  
Now, he was whirling about, seeing the room blur, settling into his own world of movement and sound, where he continued until his skin felt sticky with sweat. Finally the drums ceased. Feeling slightly dizzy, he bowed. When he looked up, he found Dulginzin watching him with a look of such violent greed that Sûla took a step backwards.  
  
“Very good.” Dulginzin clapped. “What do you say Mirandor? How do we rate that performance?”  
  
Mirandor cocked his head. “Fair.” He looked towards Dulginzin for confirmation. “I’d l-like to s-see him dance on your l-lap,” he said.  
  
“I imagine you would,” Dulginzin said, draining his cup. He set it on the floor and stood. “But not tonight. I feel a need to lie down. Sûla, you’ll come with me. The musicians are dismissed.” He waved his hand.  
  
As the musicians bowed, picked up their drums and filed out, Sûla felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He wasn’t sure he could stop the inevitable. He eyed the cup on the floor. How was he going to get the drug into it? “I see you are more temperate than the King,” he said, then forced himself to laugh. “I am used to bringing him a nightcap. I guess that’s one less task I have to do this evening.”  
  
“What? No, you’re mine for tonight. You’ll do for me everything you do for the King. Fill up my goblet, Umbarian. Bring it with you.”  
  
Sûla picked up the bronze cup, went to the jug on the sideboard and poured some more wine. Then, he retrieved his pile of clothes as if straightening the room. “You won’t need those,” Dulginzin growled. He was walking unsteadily, as if on eggshells. Sûla didn’t think it would take anything to knock him out.  
  
“I’m just tidying up, my Lord.” Without waiting for permission, he entered the shadowed bedroom, lit by a lamp sitting in the deep recess of the window sill, and carefully set the clothes on a chair near the door. Fumbling with one hand in the mailshirt, he felt for the vial. Ah, got it. As he closed his fingers about the object, he was suddenly seized about the waist by Dulginzin. He turned his gasp into a giggle. “Careful, my Lord, you’ll spill the wine.”  
  
“I don’ care,” Dulginzin said. “Bend over and grab the chair, and I’ll do you right here.”  
  
“Let me put this down.” Sûla slid through the man's hands, dropping into a crouch to set the cup and the vial on the floor next to the chair. He heard a clatter as the vial rolled somewhere. That was not a sound he fancied.  
  
“Wha’ was that?” Dulginzin growled.  
  
“A piece of my jewelry. Let me get it,” Sûla said breathlessly. He patted around the floor.  
  
“Heed it not,” Dulginzin said. He hauled Sûla upright and slapped him hard on the rear causing pain to blend strangely with a flare of desire. Dulginzin staggered towards the bed, pulling Sûla along by the back of the neck. “I want to lie down,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”  
  
The brute flung him hard onto the bed. Sûla gasped with the impact, stopping the yelp that tried to rise in his throat. “Yes, scream, go on. That’s what I want to hear from you,” Dulginzin said. He socked Sûla hard in the gut.  
  
Ai! Pain roared through Sûla’s belly and he released the scream he had been holding. Dulginzin laughed, rolled him over onto his face, grabbed him by the waist and pulled him up close, cursing, as he fumbled with his ties. This was not what Sûla had planned, not at all. He wailed again but it only seemed to encourage Dulginzin.  
  
Suddenly, Sûla remembered that he had another power at his disposal. What were the words? Oh by Zizzûn! What were they?  
  
The first word formed like smoke on his tongue and then the rest seemed to flow of their own accord, as once more he felt the swirl of wind about the room. Dulginzin’s hand on his flank went rigid. Quickly Sûla rolled over on his back to see what he’d wrought.  
  
It had worked! And not a moment too soon. The beast was frozen, rod in hand. Breathing hard, Sûla went limp under him, shaking all over. No, this was not the time to lose control of himself. He wriggled out from under his adversary, picked up the lamp on the window sill, and ran over to the pile of clothes on the chair. Now where had that cursed vial rolled?  
  
Setting the lamp on the floor, he dropped on his hands and knees, crawling this way and that, as his heart pounded painfully. Where in Arda was it?  
  
A pair of bare feet stepped from the shadows into the wavering lamplight.  Sûla startled so hard he thought he had jumped out of his skin. Abruptly, he sat back and looked past a pair of hairy legs and dangling genitals into Mirandor’s disconcerting eyes that stared to either side. The man giggled and held out his fist.  “Are you l-looking for this, z-zirâmîki?”     
  
**********  
  
Thanks again to Malinornë for beta reading, helping me with Adûnaic names and with figuring out how to auto-correct my accents.  
morthul - black breath in Sindarin. Elfscribe invention. Name for a narcotic made from flower seeds, like opium.  
Narûkh - Adûnaic name combining man (naru) and shout (rûkh).  
Pâroth - Adûnaic name combining hand (pâ) and cut (roth).  
Ephalak - means far away in Adûnaic  
***********  



	18. Dreams of Illicit Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sûla outwits the Lords of Arandor; meanwhile back in his room,Tigôn agonizes over his feelings for his friend.

Sûla cut short a gasp. Mirandor stood over him, wearing naught but a silk undershirt and sporting an erection level with Sûla’s face. Sûla started to speak the freezing spell, could actually feel his mouth begin forming the words, when he bethought himself. If he froze the lack wit’s hand shut, he might not be able to pry the vial free. He didn’t want to waste time breaking the man’s fingers. Besides, broken fingers would be a difficult thing to explain. He was already in enough hot water.

Mirandor’s other hand slid under the shirt, stroking reflexively. “I like to w-watch what Dulgi does.”

“Do you now?” Sûla said. Slowly he stood, his heart hammering in his chest. Careful. No wrong moves, he told himself. Putting on a smile, he said,“Would you like a taste of your brother’s pleasure? All for yourself?” He put his hand, fingers splayed, on Mirandor’s chest and then trailed it downward. “Why should you merely watch when you can feel it too?”

The strange young man flinched, eyes rolling. “N-no. He m-m-might . . . D-dulgi will n-n-ot like it.”

Sûla leaned forward as if to kiss him, then brought his knee up hard into Mirandor’s bollocks, at the same time grabbing the man’s wrist and snatching the vial from his hand. Mirandor’s breath sucked inward as he clutched his groin.

“Mirandor!” Sûla said, then the rest of the spell roared from his mouth like blue flames fanned by the wind. The man turned to stone, his face frozen in an open-mouthed rictus.

“Gods, gods!” Clutching the vial to his chest, Sûla collapsed to the floor. What was happening? The spell seemed so much stronger this time. He felt sick to his stomach, as if black bile dripped down the back of his throat. He feared to use it again. No time for panic now. Dulginzin would come unstuck any moment. Sûla pulled the stopper from the vial with his teeth and dumped its contents in the goblet that he’d placed on the floor under the chair, all the while murmuring the spell Annatar had taught him. Then he scrambled over to the door, and flung it open. Grasping Mirandor under the arms, Sûla hauled him into the next room and laid him out on the floor, before flying back into the room. Quietly, he shut and bolted the door behind them, just as he heard a groan from the bed.

“Where did you go?” Dulginzin growled. “Ai, by Angband’s pits, my head! What just happened?”

Sûla picked up the goblet and came towards him in a swaying walk, all the while trying to still the drumming in his chest. “You said you were thirsty, my Lord.”

“That is not how I remember it. I was just about to . . .” Dulginzin put a hand to his temple.

Sûla knelt, holding up the cup. “Here, this will help your head.”

From his crouching position, Dulginzin sat back on his haunches, and then swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting with a thump. “Why did I call for a drink?”

Sûla said nothing. Dulginzin merely plucked the cup roughly from his hand, gulped it down and sighed. “Now, what were we about?” He set the cup on the floor and then, in a surprisingly swift motion, grabbed Sûla by the back of the neck, thrusting his face into his lap. “See that! You left me still wanting. Take care of it.” And so, Sûla found himself engaged in the second such servicing of the evening.

“Most marvelous,” Dulginzin groaned. “No wonder you’re the King’s favorite. What a mouth!”

Sûla imagined himself removing the source of his misery with one snap of the jaws. But the punishment did not last long. Unlike the King, Dulginzin was quick to find his release. The beast moaned, jerked, and then emptied himself in hot pudding-like spurts. He pushed Sûla’s head down further and Sûla gagged, and flailed, unable to breathe. He couldn’t even form the words of the spell.

Dulginzin laughed as Sûla struggled. “Too big, huh. Can’t take it all!” He flung Sûla backwards and his rear connected sharply with the floor behind him. “Just wait until I’ve recovered, you won’t walk for a sennight.” Dulginzin passed a hand over his face. “I feel strange. Too much drink. Come warm my bed and I’ll take your arse later. Plenty of time until dawn. . . so that . . .”

Mid-sentence, he fell over on his side, landing with a bed-shaking thump.

By the gods, that took long enough. Sûla wiped his mouth with the back of a trembling hand. “There, you mangy son of a bitch! I hope you have the biggest headache of your life in the morning. Fuck you and your lout of a brother!” Dulginzin twitched but fortunately did not awaken.

Sûla stood for several long moments, listening to Dulginzin’s breathing deepen. Then he went to the water basin, and washed his mouth out thoroughly. By Zizzûn, what he’d give for a good steambath right about now. Watching the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest, he indulged a momentary fantasy of strangling him, reveling in the slow gurgle as his breathing ceased. But he would never get away with such a thing. They would know in an instant who had done it. It would be prudent to keep a vigil there for the night, but he could not bear the thought and was seized with a fervent desire to be free of the room that still stank of his humiliation. It wasn’t possible to return to the King’s bed before the night ended. So where? With a sudden swelling of the heart, he knew where he wanted to be. With Tigôn. This might be the only time he had a chance. He had what—maybe six hours left until dawn when he needed to return here to show that he had kept the King’s bargain. And after all, Tigôn had invited him.

Moving stealthily, he gathered up his clothes, slipped them on, and then unbolted the door, pushing it open with a creak. He heard a congested breathing. Mirandor lay on the floor exactly where he’d left him, seemingly sound asleep. The servant Pâroth was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t dare try to go that way and risk waking someone. Quietly shutting the door, Sûla went back into the room, pungent with the smell of Dulginzin’s drunken breath, and opened the door to the balcony. It was quite cold outside, but the night was well lit by the waning moon. He peered over the balcony wall. It didn’t look too difficult to climb down.

* * * *

The wine jug sat mostly untouched on the table as Tigôn miserably tossed and turned within the linen sheets and heavy furs of his bed. He kept reliving Sûla forcibly pushing him up against the wall, the feel of that warm, mobile mouth on his, the zirâmîki’s scent of citrus and musk, and the sensation of his rigid flesh pressing against his own, separated by mere layers of cloth. The memory pulsed hotly through him. Taking himself in hand had barely provided relief. If only . . . he didn’t even dare finish the thought. What was happening to his friend? Would Dulginzin hurt him? Why would the King have agreed to this? It was not fair. None of it was fair. Sitting up, he shivered, and rose to poke up the embers of his fire. Outside, the wind shrieked and rattled the shutters, echoing loudly in the small room. It sounded mournful, like some kind of spirit calling his name.

There it was again! He jumped, then listened intently. Curse of Mandos, it was his name being called, along with a sharp rap, rap on the door that led out to the small balcony. He paused to pull his woollen tunic over his naked body, ran over, unbolted and opened the door. There, crouched outside with his arms wrapped about himself, was Sûla, clad in his scanty dance costume. His skin seemed blue in the moonlight.

“By the thunder, what are you doing out there?” Tigôn cried.

“Freezing, you dolt. Are you going to let me in?”

“Yes, of course. Come in,” Tigôn said. “I was just poking up the fire. Come warm yourself. Here.” He ran and took up one of the furs from his bed, handing it to Sûla, then gestured at his stool by the fire. With a groan, Sûla sank down onto it.

“This vest feels like ice,” Sûla said. He unlaced one side and drew off the glittering mailshirt, folding it carefully over his arm, then setting it down on the floor. Tigôn tried not to be fascinated by the sight of Sûla’s shapely chest with the tightly puckered nipples. “It belongs to Lillu,” Sûla explained, gesturing at the shirt. “I have to give it back to her. Gods, what a night!” He drew the fur close about his shoulders.

“I’ll heat up some wine for you,” Tigôn offered.

“Wine,” Sûla said dully. He coughed and put a hand to his throat. “It feels as if I’ve still got some of Dulginzin’s vintage up my nose.”

“Do you not want any?” Tigôn asked, staying his motions.

“Yes, just water it down a bit,” Sûla said, coughing again.

Tigon poured the remainder of the jug into a pan, added some water from his ewer, and set the pan by the coals. “Tell me what happened.”

In the flickering firelight, Tigôn could see that Sûla’s face paint had faded. He looked tired and pale with circles under his black smudged eyes. “Dulginzin is a beast, a son of a dog,” he declared with a level of loathing in his voice Tigôn had not heard from him before. Sûla shivered again.

“What’s this?” Tigôn asked, indicating Sûla’s cheek.

“He struck me. Is it visible?” Sûla touched his face and winced.

“It looks like it’ll bruise. You should bathe it in cold water.” Tigôn went to his water basin, soaked up a small wash cloth and brought it to Sûla, who held it to his cheek.

“Maybe I should let it bruise, so the King can see what the beast did,” Sûla said. “But then maybe his Majesty won’t want me if I’m marred. Truly, I want a bath so I can wash away all trace of that bastard! He had better watch out. Some day he’ll meet with an accident, if I have anything to say about it.”

“What else did he do?”

“What do you think?” Sûla laughed harshly. “Although I suppose it could have been worse. He passed out before he could do any real damage.”

“The King did not know what would happen if he lent your services to him?” Tigôn asked, horrified.

“Of course he knew,” Sûla said bitterly. “I’ve done my very best to keep the King’s interest. And yet it has been flagging of late. I don’t know what I have done wrong.”

“I doubt that you’ve done anything wrong,” Tigôn said. “From what I’ve heard, that’s how he is. His lovers are toys to him, nothing more.”

“A toy to be used, broken, and cast off,” Sûla replied, with a sniff. He wiped his nose with the cloth and then put it back to his cheek. “I’ve seen it before. The first signs that he’s losing interest. It happened to Urug, whose place I took. The King took a fancy to me and the next thing Urug knew he’d been loaned to a visiting dignitary and afterward relegated to the zirâmîkin wing of the palace, so now he only entertains the King when all of us are at a banquet. I had to be careful around him for fear he might poison me. I think it was only terror of the King that kept him from doing so. He tries to cover up his hatred, especially when we have to perform together.” Sûla shook his head. “Others have been sent to work in the kitchens or given to another lord.” He paused, taking the cloth from his shapely cheek limned by the firelight. “That is assuredly my lot. Though, I thought . . . I thought I could keep his interest at least long enough to save some money, buy my freedom, and set myself up in business.”

“What would you sell?” Tigôn asked.

“Most probably my body. I could run a whore house,” Sûla said.

“You need not do that; there are other possibilities,” Tigôn declared.

“Well then, what else, lordling?”

“Well, you’re good at bones.” Tigôn smiled. “Too good. I’ve lost my shirt to you on several occasions.”

Sûla sniffed. “A gambling house then.”

“Maybe.” Tigôn stuck his finger in the wine. “Uh, it’s hot enough now.” Wrapping a cloth around the pot handle, he poured some liquid into his cup and handed it to Sûla. “Here.”

Sûla took the cup, held it for a moment in his hands, then took a sip. “Ah, that feels good.” He nursed it quietly for a while, then said, “You know, Tigôn, you are like . . . ,” he raised his cup, “like a draught of hot wine after a cold night. I thought, while I was riding to your rescue at the Pass . . . ” He paused and shook his head.

“Thought what?”

“That I’ve never had a real friend before. I mean someone who didn’t just want my body.” He gave Tigôn a look that seemed uncharacteristically shy, a rarity for the brazen dancer.

Tigôn sat down on the bed, watching the fire. A log shifted and fell. The quiet darkness of the night seemed to urge confession of all the heart’s layered secrets. There were things he needed to say but he felt inadequate to the task. Looking at Sûla’s beauty in the wavering firelight, and feeling his presence as palpable as a touch, he both feared and longed for something more. He cleared his throat. “Sûla, when I first met you, I have to say the impression was not favorable, but you have surprised me several times since I’ve come to know you. You’re not, in truth, you’re not what you appear.”

“What do I appear to be?” Sûla laughed.

“Don’t interrupt or I won’t get this out,” Tigôn replied. “I didn't expect honor and courage from a zirâmîki. There, I said it. I'm admitting my fault. You saved my life and I was ungrateful. It was wrong of me. You had every right to be angry. I don’t want it to come between us. What I want . . . .” He paused. Sûla watched him. “I want to say thank you.” Having finally unburdened himself, Tigôn sighed, leaning back on his hands, waiting for Sûla’s reaction. The zirâmîki’s face remained impassive, but his eyes flickered.

“Your apology is accepted,” Sûla said. He took another sip of the wine cradled in his slender hands, and then pulled the fur closer about himself.

“I don’t know how I can repay you for such a gift,” Tigôn said. “It is overwhelming to me. Just—I need to know . . . .”

“Ah now, here it comes,” Sûla said.

“I’m sorry, but I have to know,” Tigôn said. “How did you learn to freeze a man in place like that?”

“That must remain my secret.” Sûla’s eyes widened as he met Tigôn’s glance.

“Truly? This whole thing makes me very uneasy, Sûla. I sense that you are allying yourself with something dark and unwholesome.”

“Ha,” Sûla said. “My whole life has been dark and unwholesome. There is no light for me, Tigôn.”

“I think there can be,” Tigôn replied. “You just need to reach for it.”

Sûla’s expression softened, becoming more beautiful. “I’m drawn to you, King’s messenger, despite my better judgement,” he said. Setting down the face cloth and his cup, he reached across the gap that separated them and put a hand on Tigôn’s bare knee. Although his touch was cold, it sent a fiery tendril of feeling through Tigôn’s body.

“I too,” Tigôn whispered. “And I know that it is a bad thing, very likely to get us both in trouble. Mandos! Your hands are freezing!” He took up Sûla’s long, slender hands with their many rings, rubbing them vigorously between his own.

“Yes, you are trouble for me too,” Sûla said. “You must not tell the King I came here tonight.”

“Won’t Dulginzin wake up and report that you left?”

Sûla laughed. “I gave him a sleeping potion in his drink. He should be out for the whole night.”

“Clever of you,” Tigôn acknowledged. “How did you get hold of that?” Sûla’s hands felt warmer. Tigon stopped rubbing and simply held them pressed between his own. Sûla’s mouth curled into a sly smile and Tigôn released his hands.

“One of Rabêlozar’s zirâmîthin,” Sûla replied. “It’s commonly used for sleeplessness.”

“I could have used it earlier. I was having trouble.”

“Guilty conscience, eh?” Sûla said, then laughed. “Well, it's good you couldn’t sleep or I'd still be freezing my arse off on your balcony.”

Tigôn smiled at that. By now he knew that Sûla covered up his feelings with his sharp tongue. For a time they listened to the fire. Tigôn kept thinking about what he wanted to say, forming the words this way and that. Finally, it just spilled out. “Sûla.” Tigôn’s voice was husky, catching in his throat. “Why am I dreaming of kissing you?”

The courtesan laughed, tossing his dark locks. “Perhaps because you find me attractive.”

Tigôn felt his face growing hot. “Listen, I must know. When you did that, earlier, when you kissed me, it felt familiar. And I’ve wondered . . . that night in the King’s tent, I remember it was as if you’d moved away from me in a sudden jump like a rock skipping across a pond and it didn’t make sense, so I just thought I was tired. But then, when you froze Korizar, well, later when I thought about it, I had to wonder, did you freeze me with a spell too?”

Sûla tucked his hands between his thighs. “Yes,” he said.

“Why? Why did you do something like that!” Tigôn asked angrily. “You had no right.” He rose from the bed, seized the poker, crouched down and jabbed at the coals. Sparks flew like fireflies. One burned his bare thigh and quickly he brushed it off.

“You are correct, I had no right,” Sûla said sullenly.

“Were you mocking me, having fun?” Tigôn asked. “Because it was a cruel trick.”

“Not cruel,” Sûla said. “I know you won’t believe me and who would blame you. I’m a zirâmîki who fakes affection for a living, but I did it because . . . .” He paused.

Tigôn threw on another log, then turned toward him. “Go on.”

“Because I wanted to kiss you, that’s all. I knew you weren’t interested in boys and would not do it of your own accord. But, Tigôn, believe me, I’ve never . . . you, you made me feel like I wanted to do it.”

“By using dark magic on me. By tricking me,” Tigôn scoffed. 

“Yes, I knew that was all I could get. I only did it once. Believe me.”

“You mean you didn’t do it to me every night while we were playing bones?” Tigôn said. He smiled. “I thought that must be how you won so often.”

“No,” Sûla said, seemingly insulted and refusing to return the jest. “I beat you at bones fairly. No, I only did it that once.”

“Why didn’t you keep doing it to me? You had the power.” Tigôn sat back down on the bed. The air was throbbing between them, feeling like destiny.

“Because I found it was not enough,” Sûla said, miserably. “It was wrong of me, Tigôn. I swear to you, I won’t do it again. So, get over it, will you? We’re even now. Will you hold it against me forever?”

“No,” Tigôn said softly. He stroked a finger over his lips as he thought, yes, I do hold it against you, because I cannot rinse the taste of you from my mouth. But he said, “I can’t help it. It bothers me. It’s because you made me . . . .”

“What?” Sûla let the fur slip off his shoulders. Then he rose in that silky smooth uncoiling of the body that made Tigôn’s mouth go dry. He sat down next to Tigôn on the bed, reached over and gently kneaded his shoulders. “I think you should relax.”

“I’ve never felt like this before,” Tigôn said unhappily.

“And how do I make you feel, Tigôn? Is it so bad?” Sûla sifted his fingers through Tigôn’s hair, lifting it away from his scalp in a way that felt most pleasant.

“It is because I should not want you,” Tigôn whispered and his cheeks burned. His eyes shifted to meet Sûla’s.

Sûla chuckled softly. “Oh ho lordling, I thought you were immune to the charms of boys, especially wicked boys like me.”

“Don’t tease me,” Tigôn growled.

“That’s what you always say,” Sûla replied. “At some point teasing must give way to . . . something else.” He leaned forward, so close. Faintly, Tigôn could smell his perfume, like a breath of sin. “Well, then, King’s messenger,” Sûla said, his voice a sensuous burr. “The teasing ends here. If I kiss you now, will you kiss me back?” He pushed the curls away from Tigôn’s forehead, and looked at him expectantly, his lips parted, ripe for the taking.

Tigôn made a small noise in his throat. “I think you should try it, just to see,” he said. And then he didn’t know how it happened exactly, but Sûla’s mouth was on his, firm and desirous, and the Valar help him, yes, he was kissing him back, with a deep hunger that he could barely contain.

**********  
Urug - canon Adûnaic meaning bear

Thanks as ever to my wonderful betas, Malinornë and to Russandol who has served as a second beta. You guys are fabulous!


	19. Love in the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sûla initiates Tigôn into the pleasures of love-making, while Annatar demonstrates his skills to Ar-Pharazôn, and discovers something is rotten in Umbar.

How delicious Tigôn’s mouth was! Warm, responsive, eager. Sûla found himself caught up in a rush of unfamiliar feelings. Often when engaged at his trade, his mind wandered away from what his body was doing, but this time he felt alive and aware, savoring every texture, scent, and shiver of Tigôn’s body. The messenger’s natural sweetness dispelled the bitter taste that had filled Sûla ever since he had hurled Annatar’s enchantment at Mirandor. Sûla wanted to paint the way Tigôn looked, felt, and tasted into his memory to take out and savor later, for chances were this might be both the first and the last time. It was not Sûla’s lot in life to choose his own lovers.  
  
Everything about the messenger was enticing. His cheeks, which were on the verge of losing their youthful roundness to firm into the lines of manhood, blushed with excitement, his mouth was swollen from kissing, and his curls were touched red-gold by the firelight. Sûla’s face tingled from the incipient beard on Tigôn’s upper lip and chin, a pleasant change from the burn of the King’s late night bristles.  
  
Sûla reflected that he might be feeling the influence of the aphrodisiac that Dulginzin claimed he had put in his wine as his loins positively flamed for Tigôn. But it had to be more than simple lust. He had never felt quite like this before. This was no intimidating King, foul Regent, or beast-like lord of Arandor. Tigôn was a friend and, for the moment, Sûla allowed himself to dream that he could be more.  
  
Sûla pulled away, their lips separating with a slight pop, and Tigôn moaned the loss. He was coming along nicely, although still rather shy about expressing his desires. Sûla wanted to leap on him but the best move when stalking a bird was not to startle him overmuch. He knew all the ways to loosen a man’s inhibitions.  
  
“Do you like that, lordling?” Sûla asked and received a slight nod. “Come, sit up here a bit, against the pillows.”  
  
Tigôn struggled up on his elbows. As he did, the sole garment he was still wearing, a woolen chemise, rode up to his waist, revealing a prodigious erection. Tigôn looked down, blushed delightfully, and moved to cover it with his hand. But Sûla laughed, and brushing Tigôn’s hand aside, replaced it with his own.  
  
“Oh,” Tigôn breathed as Sûla curved his fingers about the rigid flesh and stroked it experimentally. It was a pretty thing compared to many he’d seen and a near match in size to his own. Groaning softly, Tigôn leaned back against the wall. Sûla spat on his hand and went to work until moisture bloomed at the head, which he spread about with his thumb.  
  
“Has anyone else held you like this?” Sûla cooed.  
  
“No,” Tigôn admitted, rolling his head side to side against the wall.  
  
“Shall I stop?” Sûla asked, still stroking, knowing full well the answer. No one he’d held so intimately had ever wanted him to stop.  
  
“No, oh no,” Tigôn gasped. He bit his lower lip and then smiled that adorable lop-sided grin. “I rather like it.” His glance dropped to the same shape tenting Sûla’s black silk trousers.  
  
“Want a look at mine?” Sûla asked.  
  
Tigôn swallowed and nodded. Sûla sat back a little, pushed aside the long red sash around his hips, then slowly unbuttoned the placket on his trousers, all the while keeping his gaze on Tigôn’s face. He wanted to savor every nuance of his friend’s first time, wanted to make it good for him. The messenger’s innocence affected him, making him forget for the moment about his own darkness. Reaching within the flies, he pulled himself out to be displayed like a piece of lewd art, a pale sceptre against black silk.  
  
Tigôn stared.  
  
“You can touch me,” Sûla said.  
  
Tigôn stretched out two fingers, sliding them along Sûla’s length. The tentative brush sent heat curling through Sûla’s groin more effectively than the more skilled attentions of the other zirâmîki. “Do you handle yourself so gently?” Sûla asked.  
  
“No.” Tigôn laughed.  
  
“Well, then, have at it.”  
  
Tigôn leaned forward, slid his hand about Sûla’s shaft, gripping tightly, and pumping rather inconsistently.  
  
“By Zizzûn, your technique needs a little finesse.”  
  
“Oh, sorry.” Tigôn released him, his cheeks flushed.  
  
“No need to be sorry. It felt good. We’re at a bad angle. Here.” Sûla moved forward on his knees and then straddled the messenger’s thighs, pushing him back against pillows and pressing their shafts together, the feeling like tingling anticipation. He went back to devouring that increasingly pliant mouth, gathering more little breathless moans and adding his own to the chorus.  
  
“What do you like, messenger?” Sûla asked. “Do you like to be dominant or submissive, the slave or the master?” He seized Tigôn’s wrists, pulled them up, and held them pinned against the wall over his head. Tigôn sighed, but he did not resist.  
  
“I really have no idea,” Tigôn said.  
  
“I’ll know by the time the night’s out,” Sûla replied. He eased off the bed and slowly peeled off his black trousers and set them aside on the stool. He left the red sash on, but adjusted it low about his hips. Tigôn watched him, chewing his lip a little, both eager and nervous. Sûla knew he had the messenger’s full attention.  
  
“What do you think? Like it?” Sûla asked, putting his hands on his hips and strutting about. Tigôn nodded and Sûla struck a dancing pose called the tiger, one arm curved up, the other down, bent elbows, fingers like claws. He dropped into a low crouch, and rose slowly with a little growl.  
  
Tigôn sat up. “Oh, would you dance for me like you did at the banquet? Just for a bit?”  
  
“Why, do you find it enticing?”  
  
Tigôn nodded, his eyes bright.  
  
“Just for you, then,” Sûla laughed. He thought of the rhythm of the drums and began clapping his own time as he moved, turning, undulating. How different this was from dancing for the Lord of Arandor. Then he had only felt loathing. Now, he felt light, like a song. He put into the dance all that he had at the banquet and more, bending and twisting, whirling around and around, the red sash flying after him. He began exaggerating his movement for a comical effect, pouting his lips, and giving Tigôn a smoldering gaze. Tigôn’s open-mouthed appreciation was worth it all.  
  
When he felt it was enough, he bowed, and Tigôn laughed and clapped.  
  
Sûla smiled with pleasure. “Will you act the part of the King, then?” he asked.  
  
“Shall I? What does he say at this point in the proceedings?” Tigôn asked. He deepened his voice. “That was most impressive, Sûla. Now come and kiss me.”  
  
Sûla laughed. “Yeah, it’s something like that.” Bending over so that his backside was presented to his lover, he plucked the cup from the floor near the stool and took a gulp, then carried it back to the bed, alternately crossing his feet, one in front of the other, in a seductive walk. He bowed, offering it to Tigôn. “Care for some more, my Lord?”  
  
Tigôn nodded, taking the cup. He downed the rest and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, setting the cup aside on the stand near the bed. “Now what?” he said.  
  
“Now,” Sûla purred as he climbed onto the bed, advancing on hands and knees towards Tigôn, who, smiling shyly, retreated until he was pressed back up against the wall. Sûla crawled between Tigôn’s legs, and from that strategic position, looked up at him. “Now, I plan to pleasure you . . . relentlessly, my Lord. All the way to full satisfaction.”  
  
Tigôn’s mouth widened into a grin.  
  
“Would you like that?” Sûla asked needlessly, as his hands roamed.  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
“All right then, this is coming off,” Sûla said, reaching down to the hem of Tigôn’s tight, woolen chemise. Without waiting for permission, he drew it up until he was stopped by Tigôn’s arms. He tugged and couldn’t budge it further. He moved up and sat on Tigôn’s lap.  
  
Tigôn chuckled. “I thought you were the expert in undressing the King.”  
  
“Even the King helps somewhat,” Sûla grumbled. “Arms up, _my Lord_ , now.”  
  
“But it’s cold,” Tigôn said teasingly.  
  
Sûla rocked his hips, rubbing himself against Tigôn’s cock, enjoying the little whimper he made. “You won’t be cold for long,” Sûla promised. “Hurry up now, or I might decide to go elsewhere.”  
  
“Would you really exchange my warm bed for the cold night?” Tigôn asked, but he obediently raised his arms.  
  
“Actually no.” Sûla worked his fingers along Tigôn’s sides as he rolled up the shirt.  
  
The messenger convulsed in laughter. “Quit it, Sûla.”  
  
“Oh, a ticklish one. Now I know the secret to torturing you. Come. Now. Off.” He tugged impatiently at the shirt, and managed to draw it over Tigôn’s head, trapping his arms and revealing a line of hair in his armpits. Sûla leaned down and licked, appreciating the tangy musk, and elicited a muffled exclamation from Tigôn, who quickly freed himself from the shirt, throwing it to the floor. His hair had bushed up in a golden nimbus about his head.  
  
“Uck! Disgusting,” Tigôn said, rubbing a hand under his arm.  
  
Sûla laughed.  
  
“You are wicked!” Tigôn said.  
  
Sûla widened his eyes. “Are you surprised? You know what I am, Tigôn. A zirâmîki and a wielder of dark magic and I’m about to be your first. What do you think about that?”  
  
Tigôn’s mouth quirked. “I suppose one can’t be a virgin forever.”  
  
Sûla laughed. “Well you _could_ remain a virgin. Some of the Bawîba Manô priests do, so I’m told. But why should you when you have someone in your bed who wants very much to deflower you?”  
  
Tigôn smiled tentatively. “I think . . . I would like that. But I’m not sure about . . .”  
  
“Hush now. There are no questions once you say yes. You must relax and give yourself to me completely. Do you trust me?”  
  
Sûla saw the exact moment that hesitation gave way to desire when Tigôn lowered his eyelids, and nodded, his lips parting.  
  
“Do you know how delicious you look? How much I’ve wanted you ever since I first saw you in the vestibule being fitted for a messenger’s livery?”  
  
“That must have been half a year ago,” Tigôn said.  
  
“About then, yes. You know what I thought? I thought, that boy has a lovely arse.” Sûla smoothed down Tigôn’s bushy hair with gentle strokes, running his fingers through the curls until they reassembled themselves.  
  
“I never thought of myself that way,” Tigôn said. “Not as a person anyone would want to bed.”  
  
“Silly! You are blind to your own charms. You could have any number of lovers if you wanted. I’m glad I got here first.”  
  
“I was always an awkward skinny thing, terrible with a sword. My older brother used to tease me; he said that girls would take one look at me and run.” Tigôn laughed a little.  
  
“Your brother was just jealous,” Sûla replied, as he took Tigôn’s hand and closed it about his prick, relishing the sensation. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a girl.”  
  
“I noticed,” Tigôn said and Sûla felt his grip become more assertive. Tigôn leaned forward and their mouths met again in a soft, juicy kiss. Tigôn’s tongue reached for his, at first a tentative probe, then becoming bolder, exploring his mouth and tongue. Sûla felt an unusual thrill flowing through him. It was so good to kiss him like this.  
  
Sûla continued the kiss across Tigôn’s chin and nibbled down his neck, discovering that it made the messenger melt. He must remember that. He bit down, making Tigôn cry and struggle a bit before relaxing under the pressure of his teeth. Sûla thought his shy friend might actually become a lion once he let himself go. He was suddenly seized with a fierce desire to mold him into that lover of his dreams. He could feel Tigôn’s heart pounding and his loins throbbed in syncopation. Oh, he wanted to do him thoroughly, from one end to the other!  
  
Rolling to the side, Sûla stroked a hand down Tigôn’s torso, pinching first one nipple, then the other. Tigôn jerked away with a laugh, which became a sigh as Sûla continued downward, snaking a finger along the iliac line delineating his loins. He skirted Tigôn’s shaft in favor of cupping his balls, and laughed at his startled jump. Sûla waited until he relaxed, weighing the cool flesh in his palm, playing with his stones by rolling them gently within the loose sacs. Tigôn stared down at Sûla’s hand and what it was doing, as if he couldn’t believe it.  
  
“Do you like that?” Sûla asked, to which he received the mute nod. Lowering his mouth to Tigôn’s chest, he ran his tongue down the center groove, across the ripples of his abdomen, pausing to suck on his navel. Tigôn giggled and flinched.  
  
“That feels strange,” he said.  
  
“Hmm, maybe you’ll like this better,” Sûla replied as he gave the bollocks a final squeeze, listening to Tigôn’s little grunt. Scooting down, he held Tigôn’s shaft upright and licked a long, wet stripe down one side and up the other.  
  
“Ai, what are you doing?” Tigôn gasped.  
  
“What do you think a zirâmîki does?” Sûla said with a chuckle. The scent of Tigôn’s loins made Sûla ache for him. Gently easing back the skin, Sûla flicked his tongue back and forth across the slit, licking the welling fluid. Tigôn tasted good.  
  
Tigôn sucked air in through his teeth. Sûla lowered his voice to a throaty whisper, allowing it to vibrate on the tender head. “Now watch me, messenger. Don’t you dare take your eyes away.” And abruptly he descended, taking Tigôn all the way in, closing his mouth around him tightly and feeling the tickle of hair on his nose.  
  
Tigôn gasped out, “Sûla, oh you don’t have to do that!”  
  
Sûla came off him and looked up through his lashes. “Right Tigôn. For the first time in my life, I don’t _have_ to do this. So, that must mean I want to. Now shut up.” He returned to his task, applying his considerable skill, sucking, tonguing, stroking, and enjoying every moan, every writhe and twitch that an increasingly incoherent Tigôn was making. Oh, he liked the way that the messenger’s staff filled his mouth. Tigôn was striving towards his peak, legs rigid. When he started shuddering, Sûla rapidly came off him and pressed his thumb into the channel behind his stones.  
  
“Oww, ai gods, no, why did you stop!” Tigôn complained. Sûla held him a bit longer until his prick calmed, then slithered up his torso stopping when their cocks lined up side by side. Tigôn’s pupils were blown dark, his cheeks blotchy with excitement.  
  
Sûla took his chin in his hand and kissed him slowly, greedily. “Taste that, that’s what you taste like, Tigôn. Isn’t it delicious?”  
  
“Not so bad, I guess.” Tigôn was still panting. “You are wicked to stop like that. I feel like my bollocks are going to bind up.”  
  
“Do you? When I’m done with you, you’ll spend so hard, they’ll turn themselves inside out.”  
  
“Oh, what a charming thought, Sûla,” Tigôn laughed.  
  
“Trust me, I know what I’m doing. It will be so much better when you finally blow. And now, for the next step in the ritual.” Sûla bit Tigôn’s neck as he stroked a hand over the messenger’s chest and tweaked one of those tender nipples – hard.  
  
“Ow, stop doing that!” Tigôn said. “What’s the next step?”  
  
“You are going to do it to me.”  
  
“I . . . um, really? I won’t know what to do.”  
  
“Do what I just did to you. The same. There’s nothing easier.” Sûla rolled over. He grabbed a pillow and shoved it behind his head against the wall, then spread his legs. “Go ahead, mîki, give me the treatment.”  
  
“Oh, are you playing the King now?”  
  
Sûla paused, taken with the idea. “Yeah, for once, I would like that.”  
  
Tigôn laughed nervously. “As long as you don’t order me flogged.”  
  
“Perhaps I shall, if you don’t service me well enough.”  
  
“What if I were to refuse . . . my Lord?” Tigôn said with a grin.  
  
“Then life will become most unpleasant for you, Slave. But tell me, do you really want to refuse? Don’t you wish to know the pleasures of making the great King lose control to his humble servant?”  
  
“Would that be satisfying? I hadn’t thought of it that way.”  
  
“Shhh, it’s a secret,” Sûla said placing a finger on his lips. Then he lay back against the pillow, arranging one of the furs about his shoulders. “What are you waiting for? Show me what you can do. If you please me, I’ll reward you most handsomely. If not, it’s the kitchens for you.”  
  
“Can’t have that, I’m a terrible cook,” Tigôn said. “Perhaps first we should have this off.” He fumbled with the knot on Sûla’s sash.  
  
“That’s right. I don’t want anything but skin between us.”  
  
“But you are still wearing all your jewels . . . my Lord,” Tigôn said.  
  
“They stay on,” Sûla laughed. “As demonstration of my superior status. Now then, mîki, make me hot for you.”  
  
Tigôn worked the knot free and pulled off the sash. He hesitated and Sûla smiled encouragingly. Solemnly, Tigôn looked down, running his finger along the fine line of hair that began just under Sûla’s navel. Sûla sucked in a breath, shivering in anticipation. Tigôn lowered his head.  
  
The first touch of his mouth was like lightning. Sûla threaded his fingers through the golden curls, gently helping the bobbing motion, and then threw his head back. “Oh yes!”  
  
*********  
Hoarse from shouting, Ar-Pharazôn rolled away from Mairon, falling on the bed with a loud whump. “Marvelous! I’ve never felt the like,” he husked.  
  
For Mairon it had been less than marvelous, but then no one rode him like Melkor had done. Mairon could almost feel the iron claws digging into his hips. He turned towards the King, propping his head on his hand. “Enjoyable, was it?”  
  
“Yes, indeed,” the King replied, breathing heavily with exertion, “I do not know what you are doing, what sorcery you are working, but I am . . . most pleased with it.” He slid his hand admiringly down Mairon’s flank, and gripped a handful of his arse. “None of my zirâmîkin bring on quite the . . . intensity,” the King babbled on. Mairon wished he would shut up.  
  
“I told you that we Maiar have certain energies we can bring to bear. It is nothing,” Mairon said. “With your permission.” He slid away, rose, and went to the King’s nightstand where he cleaned himself, then he drew his long black robe over his head, smoothing out the wrinkles.  
  
“Of course, I am used to having a servant to wash me afterward,” Pharazôn said.  
  
“I imagine so,” Mairon said, with a curl of the lip. “I like having servants myself.”  
  
“You’re not going to . . . I could order you to serve me.”  
  
Mairon laughed.  
  
“Must I remind you that you are my prisoner,” the King said. “You could be rotting in the dungeon right now.”  
  
Mairon gave a little bow. “I could. You could also be watching the tremendous slaughter of the better part of your forces. Remember who I am and treat me with respect, my Lord. You could call one of your servants to wash you. Oh, but I forgot, you sent your body slave off to spend the night with the son of Arandor. A little short-sighted that.”  
  
The King rose with a snarl, performed the service himself, throwing the cloth on the floor when he was finished and then donned a robe. Mairon noted that, although his broad chest was well muscled, he was developing a roll about his middle. The aging process was ever his friend in dealing with mortals.  
  
All of a sudden, Mairon felt weak and his vision blurred, just as before. He sat down in a chair by a charcoal brazier and summoned his energies until his sight improved. His gut fluttered most alarmingly. A glance assured him that the King had not noticed. As casually as he could muster, Mairon said, “When are you planning to send Sûla to the market for those ingredients?”  
  
“In the morning. How long will it take you to brew the elixir?” Pharazôn replied. He was at his sideboard, pouring himself a goblet of wine. Interesting, the amount he drank. It was another observation for Mairon’s catalog.  
  
“Several days,” Mairon said. “I should like to accompany him to the market. The exact ingredients are important. He may not know what to get.”  
  
Pharazôn’s smile vanished. “Then you will send him out again until he gets it right. Asking such a thing tasks me, Annatar. Your freedom will be won slowly. I do not trust you, as yet. I cannot take the risk that you’ll escape. You are treading a fine line with me. I urge you to remember that.”  
  
“Your distrust is misguided,” Mairon said. “How long must I continue to prove myself to you?” He stretched out his hands to the warm coals, thinking that this was a dismal time of year to be in Umbar, cold and damp. His missed the fires of Orodruin.  
  
“As long as it takes,” the King replied.  
  
“I would have thought winning the battle at Arzog’s Pass and apprising you of your Regent’s misdeeds would have been points in my favor.”  
  
“My thanks for your service in the battle have been duly noted. As far as my Regent, it has yet to be proven. Since Númenor is a civilized nation, he is entitled to the benefit of a trial,” Pharazôn said, pompously.  
  
“How long will that take? It would be a trivial matter in my kingdom,” Mairon replied with a curl of the lip. “I have the ability to uncover the truth in remarkably little time.”  
  
“I have found torture is an inexact way to get information. After a while a man will tell you whatever you want to hear.”  
  
“Indeed, torture is a crude technique, more useful as a weapon of terror than in getting the truth from someone. No, I have more subtle methods. Do you remember the images I showed you in your field tent? I have the ability to draw such images from men’s minds. If allowed to do this, I would know the truth.”  
  
“How would I know you were accurately conveying what you saw?” Pharazôn said in a hard voice. He sat in the chair opposite him.  
  
“If you would know, then call one of your guards.”  
  
With a grunt, Pharazôn went to the ornate door and called. A guard entered, a man with a pudgy face who was blinking and rubbing his eyes. It was rather late, after all.  
  
“Do whatever the Lord Annatar commands,” the King said, settling himself back in his seat.  
  
Mairon stood and made a show of cracking his knuckles. He took a piece of charcoal from the brazier and drew a circle on the floor and a series of symbols within it. When he was done, he commanded, “Stand here before me.”  
  
With a look of confusion, the man stood in the circle, his glance shifting nervously to the King.  
  
“Now then, what is your name?” Mairon asked.  
  
“Kulbî, son of Kirib.”  
  
“Kulbî,” Mairon rolled the name about on his tongue. “I presume you are a loyal servant of the great Ar-Pharazôn?”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Kulbî said, with a bow towards the king.  
  
Mairon sent out his senses to sniff about him, then muttered the words that would enable him to See. Long moments passed. Ah, he was getting something. This one was easy to read. A weak mind.  
  
“Have you ever stolen anything, Kulbî?”  
  
The man’s face turned white. “Nay, of course not. What is this, my Lord?” He looked at Pharazôn.  
  
“It will go easier if you confess now,” Mairon said mildly.  
  
“I have done nothing, I swear,” the man said. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.  
  
“Haven’t you?” Mairon stalked about him. “I see a late night visit to an opulent room with marble columns. A golden bracelet is lying on the floor next to a large bronze chair. You are picking it up and dropping it behind your breast-plate.”  
  
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the man stammered.  
  
“You presume to challenge me?” In disgust, Mairon barked the truth-saying spell. Both the guard and the king cowered down, covering their ears. “Look, Ar-Pharazôn,” Mairon cried as he focused the vision and brought it to life. And there, for all to see was Kulbî, looking around, then bending to pluck the piece of jewelry from the floor, and quickly leaving.  
  
“By the gods,” Pharazôn said in surprise, “I wondered what had become of that piece.”  
  
Kulbî fell on his knees and raised his hands in supplication. “Please, my Lord, t’was years ago. I had a gambling debt and it was just lyin’ there. Forgive me.”  
  
“You know the penalty for stealing,” Pharazôn growled.  
  
“Aye, I do. Please have mercy. It was just a little thing. I thought no one wanted it.”  
  
Pharazôn went to the door and summoned his other guards. “Take this one to the yard and give him fifty lashes, then dismiss him from my service,” he said curtly. “And have a servant bring me more wine.”  
  
He turned to eye Mairon warily. “That was remarkable.”  
  
Mairon composed himself on the chair. “You see, Ar-Pharazôn, I have much to offer you. You have yet to see the full extent of my talents.”  
  
“I’m beginning to realize that,” the King replied, stroking his chin.  
  
*********  
  
Tigôn raised his head, wiping saliva from his mouth. Sûla was panting, his eyes closed. His long black hair was splayed about his shoulders as he slumped against the pillows. Tigôn thought he could gaze forever at the delicate beauty of his high molded cheekbones, flawless golden skin and plump, sensuous lips. He was the embodiment of wicked desire.  
  
“Did I pass the test, my Lord?” Tigôn asked, even though it appeared from the moans, gasps, and wriggles that indeed Sûla had enjoyed what Tigôn had offered.  
  
“You surpassed it.” Sûla gave him a sultry look with those kohl-lined eyes.  “I find it hard to believe that you’ve never done that before.”  
  
“I learn quickly . . . , my Lord. Will that suffice, or do you have further need of my services?” Tigôn grinned. Sûla arched an imperious eyebrow at him.  
  
“Neither of us has been fully satisfied,” he said. “So you are not yet dismissed. Are you ready for the next stage of your training?”  
  
Tigôn nodded, suddenly feeling apprehensive.  
  
“Come up here and kiss me.”  
  
Tigôn crawled up to sit in Sûla’s lap. The feeling of their bodies pressed together caused another ripple of lust to course through him. He had not expected to like being with Sûla so much. To be sure, there was a twinge of fear in the back of his thoughts. What if the King found out, or his father? The other half of his mind, aided by his traitorous body, thrust that idea away. In the flickering red firelight of the tiny room, he felt cozily isolated from the rest of the world. No one would know and Sûla surely would not tell, bound even more fully than he into secrecy. And, Tigôn mused, if the Haradrim had killed him at Arzog’s Pass, he would have died a virgin and never known the sensations that enchanted him now. These thoughts freed him. Tomorrow would bring what it would. Tonight, he wanted whatever Sûla would offer him. His body thrummed with desire.  
  
He took Sûla in his arms and kissed him hard, enjoying Sûla’s passionate response. Their mouths opened wide as if each sought to devour the other. Their yards ground together, igniting sparks that flared and crackled in Tigôn’s loins as surely as the fire on the hearth. He desperately wanted release. “Sûla,” he whispered. “What now?”  
  
“Are you hot enough, my friend? You see, I did promise to warm you up.”  
  
“You spoke truly. Must I still play a zirâmîki? I am unsure . . .”  
  
Sûla laughed as he traced a finger about Tigôn’s lips that felt raw from kissing. “Do you have any oil?”  
  
“Oil? Wha . . oh,” Tigôn said as the reason dawned on him. “Yes.” In fact, he kept a flask of olive oil for dry skin. It was nearly gone.  
  
“Good. Go get it,” Sûla said. He gave him a little push. “Hurry.”  
  
Tigôn crawled awkwardly out of the bed and padded across the cold floor, stark naked. Shivering, he fumbled about in his luggage packs in the corner. Ah, found it, finally. He turned and saw Sûla buried under the furs on his bed, leaning his cheek on one hand and watching him with a wistful smile. The firelight played over his face, starkly lighting those cheekbones. Tigon saw the shadow of a bruise. One of his dangling earrings gleamed. “What are you looking at?” Tigôn asked and immediately felt stupid.  
  
“You, bending over.” Sûla licked his lips, much like a fox eying a pigeon. “Get back here or I’m likely to finish myself off just watching you.”  
  
“Do you flatter the King in this way?” Tigôn asked as he returned bearing his prize.  
  
Sûla widened his eyes at him. “What do you think?”  
  
Tigôn set the bottle on the side table, next to his wine cup, and slid under the furs, sighing when he contacted Sûla’s warm body.  
  
“Ack, you’re cold,” Sûla said.  
  
Tigôn pressed his freezing feet against Sûla’s legs and laughed as he flinched away.  
  
“Heartless boy,” Sûla said. He grew serious. “I don’t wish to talk about the King or even think about him, do you understand?”  
  
Tigôn nodded.  
  
“Just now there are no other lovers, no lords or servants, no past, no future, no fears. It’s just the two of us, warming each other on a cold night.”  
  
Tigôn nodded. “Agreed,” he said.  
  
For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes. Then Sûla said, “Hand me the oil, mîki. And we shall see what can be done with it.”  
  
Trying to stifle his apprehension, Tigôn gave him the flask. “I’ve heard that it hurts the first time.”  
  
“It does,” Sûla said. Sitting up, he pulled the cork off the flask with his teeth and poured a handful. Leaning forward through his bent knees, he applied it to his nether region. “Fortunately, it’s not my first time.”  
  
Tigôn felt relief go through him. “Oh, you want me to . . .”  
  
Sûla chuckled. “We can’t scare you off right away by popping your oyster. I want you to know how good it feels. Come here. Sit up.” He grasped Tigôn’s prick, stroking it with his oily hand. “See what I mean?”  
  
“Yes.” In fact, the sensation was marvelous. His yard, which had begun to flag, stood back up at full attention.  
  
“Now,” Sûla lay back in a movement as smooth as a cat’s. His eyelids lowered seductively. He swirled the tip of his finger over one of his nipples. “Come take me, Tigôn.”  
  
Tigôn shuffled forward, took his prick in hand, hesitated.  
  
“Be quick, Master Tigôn, I’m in need of you,” Sûla purred, with a little thrust of his hips.  
  
Tigôn pressed forward, pushed, and suddenly felt himself partly enveloped by an exquisitely tight heat. His prick looked so strange, disappearing like that into a place Tigôn thought it had no business being. With great willpower, he stopped, feeling his heart pounding. “Doesn’t that hurt?” he choked out.  
  
Sûla began to laugh, a chuckle that gathered in force until Tigôn could feel it vibrating all around him. For a moment he felt foolish for his outburst. Of course a zirâmîki must be used to it.  
  
“No, it doesn’t hurt,” Sûla said. “I like it. Truthfully, I would be obliged, my friend, if you would skiver me all the way down.”  
  
At that juncture, Tigôn didn’t think he could have stopped himself if he’d wanted to. He pushed forward, sinking deep until he could feel the pressure on his bollocks. So tight all around. “Oh, by the gods,” he groaned.  
  
Sûla was watching him. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” He wriggled and thrust his hips slightly, getting the two of them better seated. “Now then, boy, make it worth my while.”  
  
Leaning forward on his hands, Tigôn began to rock from his knees. It felt so natural that he was surprised he had been worried about doing it right.  
  
“Harder,” Sûla cried. “Do it!” He clasped the backs of his thighs, drawing his legs up farther.  
  
As his body’s imperative claimed him, Tigôn understood the whispers, the laughter behind closed doors, the King’s obsession. By the Valar and all that was sacred, this was the most marvelous thing he’d ever experienced. Bringing himself off was nothing in comparison. Sûla lay under him, the King’s zirâmîki, now the vessel to his own pleasure, skin warmly colored by firelight, dressed only in jewels, the ruby-eyed dragon curling ecstatically about his upper arm. His dark hair spread like a rippling mantle about his shoulders, spilling onto his chest, his huge, exotic eyes half-closed. It made Tigôn feel powerful.  
  
For every thrust that Tigôn made, Sûla responded by pushing back, arching and moaning. Moaning. It sounded like something between pain and pleasure, as if he were actually enjoying himself.  
  
“Do, uh, do you like that?” Tigôn gasped.  
  
“You have no idea,” Sûla panted, “how good it feels, when you, yes, right, right there. Oh!”  
  
The courtesan reached down and began stroking himself rapidly. The sight caused another ripple of sensation in Tigôn’s loins, already afire with need. It felt as if he were pulling a great bow, attaining a draw that he thought might be his limit, before discovering that he could pull it even further, impossibly so. His breath was coming fast, his thighs burning with tension.  
  
“Harder, Tigôn!” Sûla cried.  
  
Casting aside his fears that he might be hurting his friend, Tigôn went at him like a battering ram. Suddenly, Sûla threw his head back with a sharp cry as white drops spattered on his chest, accompanied by rhythmic convulsions all around Tigôn’s shaft. It seemed as if the bow suddenly loosed with a tremendous vibrating twang. Tigôn’s loins sang and a fire roared in his head. He cried out. Still he came, more and more, and still he thrust on until, as Sûla had promised, his bollocks ached, and his body screamed surrender. Gasping, he fell forward onto Sûla’s chest, buried his face against the zirâmîki’s fragrant neck, and attempted to catch his breath. As the feeling of joyful well-being continued to course through his body, Tigôn felt Sûla move under him, felt his hair softly stroked.  
  
“Good, huh,” Sûla said, with a chuckle.  
  
“Gods,” Tigôn moaned as he slipped free from Sûla’s body and rolled to the side, throwing an arm about his lover’s chest. “That . . . um, there are no words for that.”  
  
“No, you are right. No words.” Sûla pushed Tigôn’s hair away from his sweaty forehead. “I think you’ve missed your calling all this time,” he whispered, his lips tickling Tigôn’s nose. “You gave me a perfectly wicked thumping.”  
  
“Did I?”  
  
“Yes, just the right amount. Not too much. Just enough to make me, um, pleasantly sore in the morning.” Sûla used a corner of the linen sheet to wipe off his chest. “Which I suspect will be here all too soon.”  
  
“Let’s make it last. I can do without sleep,” Tigôn said avidly.  
  
“I’ll try to stay awake,” Sûla said. “Hmm, let me clean up a bit. Move.”  
  
He slipped out of the bed, threw another log on the fire before going to Tigôn’s water basin, wetting the cloth he had used on his bruised cheek and wringing it out. He cleaned himself and then brought it to the bed and carefully wiped Tigôn down. Cold water dripped down Tigôn’s thighs. He shivered and when Sûla was done, they both retreated into the warmth of the furs. For a time they lay in each other’s arms, listening to the crackle of the fire. Tigôn felt awkward, not knowing what to say. “I liked that,” he finally ventured.  
  
“I could tell.”  
  
“It was much better than I expected.”  
  
“What did you expect?”  
  
“I don’t know. I thought it would be like taking myself off.” Tigôn shook his head. “It was . . . much better.”  
  
“It’s my business to know how to please.”  
  
“Yes. Clearly, you know your trade. But I hope it was more than that for you.”  
  
Sûla smiled. “Yes, it was good for me, too.”  
  
Tigôn paused, feeling his heart slowly returning to a normal pace. “Tell me, when did you know you liked boys?”  
  
Sûla snorted. “I was never given a choice. I don’t know what would have happened if I had been left to discover things on my own.”  
  
“Oh.” Tigôn considered that. “I’m sorry. I feel like I continually ask insensitive questions.”  
  
“You were raised like a hand-fed quail,” Sûla said, shifting a little. “You didn’t have to be afraid of being beaten all the time. Your parents didn’t sell you into slavery at age thirteen. I envy you, Tigôn.”  
  
“I can’t even imagine your life,” Tigôn replied.  
  
“I don’t want your pity, lordling. I’ve done well enough for myself. We can’t choose where we are born. All we can do is make the best of it. So, when did you know you liked boys?”  
  
“Um, about the time you put your mouth on my prick,” Tigôn said, causing them both to burst into laughter.  
  
“If only I’d known that’s all it would take,” Sûla chuckled.  
  
“Yes, well, before I came into the King’s service,” Tigôn continued, “I never thought about how men might please one another. I knew about it, of course, but I don’t remember dwelling on it. Then, I came into the banquet hall to give the King a message and I saw . . . what you were doing to each other. At first I thought it was disgusting. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And then we became friends and you were . . .”  
  
“What was I?”  
  
“Like you are Sûla, a big tease, and I thought you were just making fun of me as my brother used to, but then you saved me from the Haradrim, and I realized that you really did care, enough that you put your life at risk, and I felt guilty for how I’d thought of you. And somewhere along the way, something changed.” He paused. “I don’t think I like boys, especially, not in the abstract . . .” He leaned forward and kissed Sûla’s lips. “But I do like you.”  
  
“I think that’s the best thing anyone has ever said to me,” Sûla replied.  
  
“So, what shall we do?”  
  
“Your turn,” Sûla said. He patted Tigôn’s arse.  
  
“No, I meant, what shall we do later, tomorrow, and the next day?”  
  
The courtesan abruptly rose upon one elbow. “What we will do, Tigôn, is pass each other in the halls, nod pleasantly, and pretend that this never happened. Nether of us can afford the King’s displeasure.”  
  
Tigôn felt a palpable sense of loss. Would this truly be the one and only time he would share this wondrous pleasure, this closeness, with Sûla? He said, “But he had no difficulty loaning you out to Lord Dulginzin.”  
  
A scowl passed over Sûla’s face. “True enough, but it does not go both ways. He thinks of us like his possessions, like the jewels he keeps in his cabinet. He does not allow his zirâmîkin to have lovers on the side. Before you came to court, the King caught two zirâmîkin sleeping together without permission. In wrath, he sent both of them to work rowing galleys. They were lucky; it could have been worse. I don’t wish to give up my situation any earlier than I must, and I think I can keep his interest for a while longer. Lord Annatar said . . .”  
  
“What?” Tigôn tensed. “What did he say?”  
  
“Nothing. It is of no consequence.”  
  
For a moment, Tigôn thought of probing further but he had decided he was not going to report to Lord Elendil any more of what Sûla said, and therefore it was best not to know anything to report. All this spying and intrigue was not for him. The last thing he wanted was to get his friend into trouble. Instead he said, “I think you should be wary of the Zigûr. I have deep suspicions about his motives. His capture was all too easy.”  
                                  
“So everyone says,” Sûla replied, angrily. “But I’ve seen as much of him as anyone and I think he’s been grossly misjudged. I’ve never been treated so well by a lord. And he’s brilliantly clever. I think he can be a powerful ally to Númenor.”  
  
“I don’t want to argue,” Tigôn said, “certainly not tonight. Just heed my warning, will you?”  
  
“Why? Do you care?” Sûla mocked.  
  
“Yes, actually I do.”  
  
There was that softening of Sûla’s expression. He stroked Tigôn’s cheek. “Dawn is not far off. Do you want to fuck some more?”  
  
Tigôn felt his shaft twitch. “Yeah,” he said.  
  
*********  
  
“What makes your skin so hot?” Ar-Pharazôn said admiringly, as he stroked along Mairon’s naked chest.  
  
“I am a being of fire,” Mairon replied, impatiently. Silently, he added, ‘idiot.’ The night had been long and what he’d had to do for the King unspeakable, but necessary for a number of reasons. He wanted no question in the King’s mind concerning his whereabouts this evening. There were delicate forces at work here, which he needed to control. And he didn’t trust his new body anymore. He could sense the duality becoming stronger. Soon, he would need the potion to cement the elf’s fëa.  
  
Mairon cast out his senses, probing the shadows for signs, portents. Something was happening out there. He tensed suddenly and sat up in the bed.  
  
“What is wrong?” Ar-Pharazôn asked, covering a yawn.  
  
“Nothing. Go to sleep,” Mairon said. He snapped his fingers. Obligingly, the King slumped back and closed his eyes. _Much better_ , Mairon mused. _Now I can think without interruption._ He rose and sat cross-legged in the chair and closed his eyes. He spoke spells of seeing and listening and not for the first time, regretted the loss of the Ring, which amplified his power. Then he waited. As a shadow figure, he stalked the halls of the palace from the top floor where they were, down to the dungeon. As ever he was drawn to those he’d touched before. And drawn even more towards pain. Dark shapes of ugliness and violence were revealed to him. He probed further and then scowled. This was unexpected and definitely not part of his plans. The morning would bring a new set of problems for both him and the King.  
  
**********  
  
A bird twittering outside the window caused Sûla to raise his head from the nap he had not meant to take. A rush of apprehension and regret flooded him. Over, all too soon, and now he had to go back to endure the odious Dulginzin, who, no doubt, would use him painfully. He could hardly bear the thought. Tigôn lay next to him, on his back, his features limned by the blue light of early dawn. He was snoring gently. Sûla smiled, remembering how he had worn his friend out with pleasure. He stroked Tigôn’s bare shoulder. If only he had been born a wealthy man, capable of ordering his own affairs. For a moment he allowed himself to dream of enticing Tigôn to run off with him. But what kind of life could they lead in Umbar? He had become far too accustomed to living in luxury and Tigôn was a soft noble’s son. He would never last. Well, he had better hurry or he might get caught.  
  
Carefully, he eased his body away from Tigôn and swung his legs off the bed. He shivered. The fire had died back to embers and the air was cold. Quickly, he slipped his trousers on. The mailshirt felt like ice. He didn’t want to put it on and instead set it on the chair. Perhaps Tigôn had a cloak or a heavy tunic he could borrow. He rifled through Tigôn’s pack. Ah, a warm woolen jacket.  
  
Tigôn stirred, flung an arm across his eyes and groaned. “Is it morning?”  
  
“Nearly. Go back to sleep.”  
  
“Why do I hurt in strange places?”  
  
Sûla laughed. “It will go away. Can I borrow your jacket?”  
  
Tigôn turned over and opened his eyes. “What?”  
  
“It’s quite cold out. I’ll bring it back as soon as I can.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah. Must you go so soon? I don’t think Anor has yet arisen.” Tigôn held out his arms with a warm, sleepy smile. Irresistible.  
  
Sûla came back to bed and climbed under the covers next to him, kissing his curls, which looked grey in the faint light. “Are you sorry about what we did?”  
  
“No,” Tigôn said. “Not at all. I only wish . . . .”  
  
“Remember, no regrets. We promised each other.”  
  
“I do not regret anything. I just would have liked it to last much, much longer.” Tigôn sighed. Gently, he kissed Sûla. “Are you sure we can’t ever do this again? See each other in secret? Perhaps, when we go back to Armenelos, there may be opportunities . . . .”  
  
“I’m afraid that it would be too dangerous for us both,” Sûla said. “Do not be offended if I ignore you in court. We must be careful.”  
  
Tigôn frowned. “I understand, believe me. You will find me the essence of discretion. But I can always hope, can’t I?”  
  
“I suppose. Who knows how the gods view our destinies?” Sûla conceded.  
  
“Whatever happens, it was a good night. Truly good, Sûla. I mean that.” Tigôn smiled gravely and Sûla felt something in his chest, an emotion he was sure he’d never felt before.  
  
“Well, then, farewell, my dear.” Sûla kissed him and attempted to pull away but Tigôn held him tightly. So, they lay together for a while longer while Sûla nuzzled his hair, trying to commit to memory how it felt to be so at peace. Finally the birds’ occasional tweets grew into chatter and Sûla knew he did not have much time. “Truly, I must take my leave now.” He pulled free, shrugged on Tigôn’s jacket, buttoned it up.  
  
“Be careful of Lord Dulginzin,” Tigôn called.  
  
“I will. And you, good night, then.” He opened the door to the balcony, feeling the full pain of the frosty air. The eastern sky was brightening, pushing the darkness away. In the distance below them, he could see the geometric silhouettes of the many rooftops of Umbar and smell woodsmoke from cooking fires. A cock crowed somewhere.  
  
“You mean ‘good morning,’ don’t you,” Tigôn said. He rose, shivering, came over and took Sûla in his arms. They shared one more deeply heated kiss that Sûla hoped would be enough to last the rest of his life. It was not his lot to be made happy by love.  
  
Pulling away from the warmth of Tigôn’s arms, Sûla went to the railing. He glanced back once more at the tousled-haired youth, standing nude in the doorway, a solemn expression on his face. Then he climbed over the side, and dropped silently down to the balcony below them and from there again until he reached the ground.  
  
Fortunately, the wing where the lords of Arandor were ensconced was not far away. After a long moment of trying to decide which balcony it was, he remembered that there had been a dead potted plant outside Dulginzin’s door. He climbed from one balcony to the next, his breath puffing in frosty clouds. When he reached the right door, one with peeling blue paint, he hesitated outside, listening hard for movement within. Perhaps, if he were really lucky, Dulginzin would remain unconscious and he could walk free without having to endure any more of his abuse. His bare feet ached with cold. _Oh Lord Zizzûn, if you ever heard my prayers, hear them now. May he still be asleep and not wake when I enter, so I can go back to the King’s room._  
  
Just then, a golden ray of light broke over the horizon, which he took as a good sign. Holding his breath, Sûla turned the knob and peeked in. All was deadly quiet. In the bed against the far wall, he could see the long shape of Lord Dulginzin under the blankets. He sighed in relief, and slipped into the room.  
  
Immediately, he felt something wasn’t right. There was a smell— a heavy iron smell. He approached the large bed with its ornate wooden posts. Lord Dulginzin lay very still, one bare shoulder exposed, his face turned away from him. No movement at all. Sûla drew closer still and noticed that there was no slow rise and fall of the man’s chest. He leaned over the still form and was startled to see blood staining the blanket. Clasping the lord’s shoulder, Sûla pulled him over slightly, but the head rolled in a peculiar way, revealing a massive wound gaping across Dulginzin’s throat from ear to ear. Stifling a gasp, Sûla snatched his hand back. Slowly spreading out in the bedding underneath the Lord of Arandor was a wide black pool, blood and more blood, as if an ox had been butchered.  
  
By the gods! Sûla’s mouth dropped open in horror. No, it couldn’t be! How could this have happened in the few hours he had been gone? And who had done it? He swept his gaze about the room. No one was there. The door leading to the sitting room stood ajar. Had he left it that way? He didn’t think so, but his mind was in a whirl and he couldn’t be sure of anything. The body was still warm and had not yet stiffened, so it had not happened all that long ago.  
  
In a blind panic, Sûla backed away and sank down into a crouch, hands pressed over his mouth. Should he go and report it and hope they believed him? He smacked his forehead. Stupid! Stupid! They would seize him as the most likely suspect, of course they would! Many people had seen the King order him to attend Lord Dulginzin. Both Mirandor and the servant had seen him come to the rooms and go in to lie with him. He had no alibi. How would he explain that he had not been there? How could he prove he had not done it? There was no way that he could. Even if Tigôn would vouch for him, and that was problematic, he could have killed Dulginzin after he left Tigôn’s room. Tigôn could not prove otherwise. Gods! A slave killing a lord? He would be gutted and hanged and his body left for the crows. They wouldn’t even wait to investigate any other cause. He was a dead man! What to do? What to do? There was only one chance. He must run.  
  
Looking down at his bare feet, he realized he wouldn’t get far without shoes of some kind. Dulginzin’s boots stood in the corner. He sprinted over, and sitting on the floor, drew them on. What else? Opening the wardrobe, he found the man’s heavy, fur-lined cloak. Well, Dulginzin wouldn’t need that anymore. He swirled it about his shoulders and drew the hood up over his head. Dulginzin’s field pack of equipment was strewn open upon a chaise lounge. Grabbing a knife belt, he buckled it about his waist. He didn’t dare take anything else. No time. He must fly!  
  
Out the door and over the balcony railing he went, nearly falling in his haste. When he reached the ground, he crouched for a moment in the bushes, breathing heavily. He had an aunt in Umbar. He thought he remembered where she lived. Surely she would hide him for a day or so. He was wearing enough jewelry to buy her affection.  
  
For a moment, he thought of returning to say farewell to Tigôn, to let him know he had not done it. But any delay might be his death. He could not risk it. Looking up towards Tigôn’s room, he touched his lips with his fingers and blew a kiss. “Farewell my friend. We both knew it was doomed from the start. Think well of me.”  
  
And with hardly a rustle, he crept through the grounds, climbed a tree, slipped over the wall, and down into stinking back alleys of the awakening city.  
  
********  
“Kulbî, son of Kirib, both names are canon Adûnaic  
  


-tbc-


	20. Rude Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The murders during the night are revealed and an investigation to find the perpetrators begins. Mairon’s fëa is becoming unstable and he desperately needs to make the potion that will cement it. Meanwhile Sûla escapes into the city and asks his aunt for help.

Mairon stared at the glowing coals in the brazier, momentarily transported to his forge when he’d been Aulë’s apprentice, so very long ago.  Briefly, he wondered what existence would be like now if he’d never joined Melkor and had stayed in Aman. Safer, no doubt, but incredibly boring. No, he preferred action, plans, crafting a future where he, not his foes, held the reins.  He wondered if, as Melkor had foreseen, it would all end badly for him. Although, he thought with a sneer, Melkor had not been able to prevent his own demise, so perhaps his power was less than his own hubris had made it. Mairon felt sure he could avoid Melkor’s mistakes. Absently, he rubbed a finger over the flower of coppery hair that he’d found in the hole where he’d left the Ring. Shortly afterward, he had pinned it to the neck of his robe and had kept it there. He found it oddly comforting.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn began snoring in an irritating staccato fashion. Mouth open. Mairon looked up, walked across the cold floor and bent over him, musing that he need only command the carotid artery to pinch off, just there, and the snoring would be stilled forever. He wiggled his fingers. It was tempting, so tempting. Mairon straightened. What was he doing? _Patience, my lovely_ , he thought. He had outmaneuvered Melkor. In comparison, this man’s life span was a mere snap of the fingers.    
  
He felt a strange jump as if sucked through the air, and thoroughly disoriented, he found himself back in the chair by the warmth of the brazier. No! He began to shake. This was not good. He needed to brew his potion to cement the elf’s fëa and quickly. How should he do it without tipping his hand to the King?  
  
First, he needed to learn if there were new developments out there. Drawing his legs up under him, Mairon felt for the threads in the fabric of space and time, plucking and sounding them to learn what he could. His nerves felt raw and his temper ready to flare. Someone had disrupted his plans by killing the Lord of Arandor’s son and he could not tear the veils aside to see who. His power was not what it had been when he had the Ring. Was Sûla the murderer?  By the Door of Night! This venture balanced on the edge of a knife. It wouldn’t take much for it to fail. He needed to get to Sûla soon and learn exactly what had happened.  
  
The seeing was obscured by mist, but now he heard boots clattering down the cobbles of Umbar’s streets, and he saw a dark-cloaked figure, hood drawn low over his face as he ran. It was Sûla. Mairon could feel his panic. Tendrils of his dark magic trailed after the boy like a broken spider’s web.       
  
Well then, the courtesan was out of the picture for the moment. Best to give the King a strong motivation to order someone else on the errand. It would take just the right spell, not too much. Muttering and stroking the air with his fingers, he conjured stiff joints and exhaustion, a sour stomach, headache, and darkened skin under the eyes.  The King groaned and turned over in his bed.    
  
Mairon smiled. He loved feeling clever. He brushed a finger over the flower and was propelled suddenly into a vivid, erotic dream in which a slender body rode him astride, golden hair swinging back and forth. It ignited an aching void in his chest.  He rocked in the chair, once, twice, thrice.    
  
There was a tentative rap on the door and Mairon jerked back into a present awareness. A servant’s voice called, “My Lord, your morning posset is here.”  
  
“Bring it in,” Mairon answered gruffly.  “I hope you have two of them.”  
  
****************    
  
Still wearing his dressing robe, Pharazôn sat on the edge of his great bed, spooning the custard layer out of his posset.  He was feeling singularly rotten this morning.  His very bones seemed to ache; he had a bad taste in his mouth, and the mirror had not been kind. He wondered if fucking Annatar so much last night had drained him of some essential essence.  Or was this some of Annatar’s sorcery?    
  
Pharazôn glanced suspiciously over at that lissome body lounging on a couch across the room. Annatar was lying on his side, sucking the posset from the spout on his cup. His long red hair spilled over his shoulders and pooled around him, and the sleeping robe had parted to reveal a long, delicious slice of white skin from that elegant neck, decorated with red bite marks, all the way down to his navel.  He raised glowing golden eyes to look at the King and then arched an eyebrow. Suddenly Pharazôn was filled with an aching desire to rush across the room and throw the Maia face forward over the couch.  He casually brushed a hand across his crotch and became frustrated when his body did not respond as it had before.     
  
Annatar sat up and his robe slipped off one round shoulder.  “Ah, finally you’re awake, my Lord,” he purred.  “I’m most eager for another go.”  
      
He rose, padded across the room, hiked up his robe, and straddled Pharazôn’s lap, rocking their loins together.  He worked his hand downward to fondle the King, then glanced up, a shadow of disappointment crossing his lovely features. “Ah, I forget that there is a limit to men’s stamina.  A shame we had to lose so much of your seed when we could have used it to brew my elixir.  That would certainly renew your prowess.”    
  
“Get off!  You take too many liberties!” Pharazôn growled.  “I should hang you up by your wrists and thrash your impudent backside.”  
  
“As you did in the tent,” Annatar said.  He moaned softly and his eyelids fluttered shut as if the idea excited him. A corresponding desire rippled again through the King.  Abruptly, he pushed Annatar to the bed and then rolled on top of him, holding his wrists down. The feel of the Zigûr’s body between his thighs was like a buzzing nest of bees, the desire to master him overwhelming.  He bent down and spoke aggressively against the sorcerer’s lips.         
  
“You know what I think?” Pharazôn said. “I think you are over-eager to make this elixir for me.  I wonder, Annatar, if it might have an adverse effect on me?”  
  
Annatar chuckled. “You’ve asked that before, my Lord.  Surely, you know best. It’s less taxing for me if I don’t have to brew it.  Takes a lot of my magic.”    
  
“Would it cure morning aches and pains?”  
  
“You’ll feel like a callow youth again.  If you do not, you may thrash me as you like,” Annatar replied.  
  
“I could thrash you anyway,” Pharazôn growled and his lips brushed against Annatar’s.  
  
“Perhaps I’d like that,” Annatar said smiling most lasciviously.  Unexpectedly, his body became completely boneless and he stared vacantly at the ceiling.     
  
Pharazôn felt a curious desire to laugh. “You are an odd one,” he said, then sat up, releasing the Maia’s wrists.  Annatar lay still as death. Disturbed, Pharazôn shook him hard.  “What’s the matter with you?”  
  
The eyes came into focus.  “Lack of sleep,” Annatar mumbled.  “And my foot is hurting me. I must have the morthul. You promised me!”  
  
“Very well, you’ll have your herbs and what not.  Make a list and I’ll see that Sûla goes to market this morning.”  
  
With a soft hiss, Annatar rose, shook his robes back into place, and then walked across the room to a secretaire where he found parchment and ink.  He began scratching a list, occasionally pausing to look up at the ceiling, his lips moving.  Pharazôn watched him, admiring his grace as he bent to his task, in the same way that one would admire a cat’s silky motion.  _Had_ Annatar bewitched him?  Whatever it was, Pharazôn could not rid his mind of last night’s sensations.  He  must have more.      
  
A sharp rap sounded at the double doors to his chambers and he jumped.  A man called, “Please, my Lord King, may we enter? We have news that will not wait!”  
  
***********  
Pharazôn’s bed chambers had become crowded with servants, along with Lord Azgarad, and various officials from Rabêlozar’s household, including the Regent himself, and the captain of his prison guard, Igmil.  The captain’s dark complexion had become ashen and he kept glancing nervously at the Regent as he answered Azgarad’s questions. Sipping a cup of morthul, Annatar sat quietly in the corner near the archway that lead to an immense balcony, from which one could see dropping away down the hill a spill of Umbar’s angular rooftops brightening in the morning sun.  
  
That light streaming through the archway was not helping Pharazôn’s headache. There had been no time to dress completely in his formal robes and he was feeling vulnerable and irritated in the extreme as he sat in his large chair, trying to make sense of what had happened.  
  
“Slow down,” Lord Azgarad was saying. “Tell me again, Captain Igmil, did you personally find Ephalak hanging in his cell this morning?”  
  
“No, it was Belza, who was standing guard over the whole unit last night.  He went to take breakfast to him and found him hanging by his gold neck chain from the beam in the ceiling. Belza said it looked like suicide and when I went to investigate, that’s what it looked like to me too.”  There was again that glance at the Regent, who didn’t look back.  Instead Rabêlozar stood, hands folded, woefully shaking his head with a corresponding waggling of his triple jowls.  
  
Azgarad stroked the patch of beard on his chin.  “What makes you think it was suicide?”  
  
“Well,” Captain Igmil cleared his throat.  “Lying on the floor near his feet was a stool that had been kicked over.  It was his necklace as hanged him and no one visited him last night.”  
  
“How do we know that?” Azgarad asked.  
  
“Both guards assigned to him swore that no one came in or out.”  
  
“Send them up here, I’d like to question them myself,” Azgarad declared.  “With your permission, my Lord,” he addressed Pharazôn.  
  
“Um, we can’t,” Captain Igmil said, and his forehead broke out in a sweat.  
  
“Why not?”Azgarad demanded.  
  
“Because, my Lords, they were executed this morning, both of the guards, for dereliction of duty,” Captain Igmil said.  
  
“What?” Pharazôn cried. “Who authorized that?”  
  
In the corner Annatar chuckled quietly.    
  
Captain Igmil’s glance flicked to the Regent, who looked back at him, seemingly shocked at the news.    
  
“Are you deaf, Captain?” Azgarad cried. “The High King of Númenor asked you a question!”  
  
“My Lords, please.” Igmil fell to his knees. “I’m a simple man obeying orders.  I was told by the Regent’s chancellor to do it, so I did.  He said the orders came from the Regent.”  
  
“I did not give any such order!” Rabêlozar exclaimed.  
  
Pharazôn felt he was witnessing a staged performance.    
  
Wearily, Azgarad pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.  “Where is the Regent’s chancellor now?”  
   
Rabêlozar looked at other members of his household and they all looked back.    
  
“Well, find him!” Rabêlozar roared.    
  
Igmil jumped to his feet, but before Rabêlozar’s servants could leave, Annatar stood and slowly clapped. “This is all very convenient, isn’t it?” he said as he prowled towards the Regent in a wave of crackling power.  “The man accused of embezzling funds to build a temple, a project you were very involved with, Lord Rabêlozar, is found dead in his prison cell.  The two men guarding him are executed and the man who gave the order is missing.  I smell a rat.” He tilted his head, looking snidely at the Regent.  
  
“I assure you, my Lord King,” Rabêlozar said, heavily lowering himself to one knee before the chair where Pharazôn sat, “Ephalak killed himself because he knew we would uncover his misdeeds. I had no idea he was betraying me and so I’m well rid of a man who sought to enrich himself at my expense.  But, my Lord, I’m eager to undo the damage he caused, which has harmed my excellent reputation. I’m willing to make good on the missing funds.  I know Lord Azgarad looked at the books last night.  Did you find out how much was missing?”  This was said with an earnest glance at Azgarad.  
  
“It would take some time to sort through those records,”Azgarad growled. “But be assured, I will do so.”    
  
“I agree with Lord Annatar,” Pharazôn said.  “Something doesn’t add up here, Rabêlozar.  Annatar, you have the ability to read the truth. I’ve seen it.  Show us what our Regent knows.”  
  
All heads turned towards the sorcerer.      
  
“As you wish.” Annatar cracked his knuckles and approached the Regent, whose eyes widened in terror.  
  
“Don’t let him touch me!” he squealed. “I’ve heard what the Black Arts can do to a man.  He’ll make me lie.”  He paused, quivering like a cornered boar.  Then his eyes narrowed craftily.  “My King,” he said.  “I agree that the circumstances are suspicious.  How do we know the Lord Annatar, master of sorcery, didn’t himself go to the dungeons and murder my exchequer?  No one saw anyone go in or out, isn’t that true, Captain Igmil?” The man nodded.  “We’ve never had anything like this happen in my prison before.  I think you did it and planned to pin it on me!”  He heaved himself to his feet and pointed at Annatar.    
  
“Well played,” Annatar said, calmly.  “I commend you.  However, his Majesty knows precisely where I was all night.  Don’t you, my Lord?”  
  
Pharazôn noticed Azgarad’s startled expression and narrowed eyes. Anger surged through him at the pungent man standing before him. “Indeed, I’ve had enough of your schemes and dissembling, Rabêlozar!” he cried.    
  
The double doors opened and a flustered Nibanuzîr, the King’s head of household appeared, bowing awkwardly.  “Pardon the interruption, O King, but the Lord Izindor is here to see you about an urgent matter.”  
  
“What now!” Pharazôn roared.              
  
Nibanuzîr quailed.  “My Lord, his son, the Lord Dulginzin, was murdered last night!”  
  
Pharazôn clapped a hand to his forehead.  “What a piece of work this night has been. You and you,” he beckoned at his personal guards, “put Lord Rabêlozar in his own prison.  And if I discover he’s mysteriously disappeared from his cell, I will hold all his servants and their families accountable and their lives forfeit.  Do you understand me?” He glared around at the Regent’s servants, who blanched in terror.  “Now,” Pharazôn turned back to Nibanuzîr. “Tell Izindor . . .”  
  
“My Lord King,” Izindor cried, pushing past Nibanuzîr and striding into the room. “I must see you at once.  I demand justice for my son!”  
          
****************  
  
Someone was pounding on the door.  “Tigôn! Get up.  The King commands your presence.  Tigôn, are you in there?”  
  
Painfully, Tigôn’s consciousness crawled up from a dead slumber.  He smiled and reached for his beautiful, dark-haired lover, but his hand met naught but the soft pelt on his bed. Then he remembered.  Sûla had left just before daybreak. He sat up. What time was it?  And why was someone trying to beat his door down?  Grabbing his woolen tunic off the floor where Sûla had tossed it, he pulled it on, and staggered to the door, which he opened a crack.  
  
There stood Darîkil the page, with his fist raised to thump some more. “By Ossë’s balls, Tigôn, you sleep like the dead.  Did you get drunk at the banquet last night?”  
  
“Yeah,” Tigôn yawned, running his hand through his unruly curls.  
  
“I thought so. You look like something the dog dragged in,” Darîkil said, much too cheerfully.  
  
“Thanks a lot, Darîkil. What does the King want?”  
  
“The whole palace is jumping like a school of sardines,” Darîkil replied, seemingly pleased to be party to knowledge that Tigôn did not have.  “There’ve been two murders during the night!”  
  
That seized Tigôn’s attention. “What? Who?”  
  
“There was a prisoner down in the dungeon, one Ephalak by name, the Regent’s exchequer.  Hanged in his cell.”  Darîkil grasped his own neck, made a choking sound and stuck out his tongue. “The other was that Lord of Arandor, Dulginzin.  Someone cut his throat! Can you imagine?”  
  
Tigôn felt a sudden terrible grip on his heart.  “D-do, they know who did it?”  
  
“No, but they’re saying it must be the King’s Umbarian zirâmîki, Sûla.  Dulginzin requested his services at the banquet last night as reward for his valor in the battle, and the King was forced to honor his promise. You must know, you were there!  I’m told the zirâmîki wasn’t too happy about it. Everyone knows what a brute Dulginzin can be, so no doubt he had it coming. Still, Lord Izindor is carrying on something fierce and the slave has disappeared and . . .”  
  
“Sûla has disappeared?”    
  
“Yeah, no one has seen him since last night. So of course it looks very bad for him, doesn’t it?  Wanna make a wager on whether or not he’ll hang for it?”  
  
“I don’t have any money,” Tigôn said shakily.  His heart was pounding now.  “What time is it?”  
  
“It’s about two hours after sunrise.”  
  
Only two hours since Sûla had left his bed.  How could so much have changed in so little time?  Two murders!  “Do they think Sûla killed the prisoner as well?” Tigôn demanded. “How is that even possible for him to have passed the guards in the dungeon?”  
  
Darîkil shrugged. “Or the prisoner might have hanged himself.  The palace guards are saying suicide. Listen, we can’t dawdle. The King has commanded all his pages to attend him immediately.  I’m sure we’ll find out everything soon enough. I’ll wait for you. Hurry up!”         
             
Darîkil started to push past him into the room before Tigôn thought better of it.  His room was awash in incriminating evidence.  Sûla’s borrowed mail shirt lay on the chair, the empty bottle of oil sat uncorked on his nightstand, and most likely the air reeked of sex. He could still feel the lines Sûla had raked down his back, which he was sure would be more than visible. “Hold on there,” Tigôn said, putting his hand on Darîkil’s shoulder.  “I’ll be out in a moment.”  
  
“I’ll just sit on your bed while you get dressed,” Darîkil replied.  
  
“I don’t need you eying my naked body,” Tigôn snapped.    
  
“Oh, as if I were interested in your fair white arse!” Darîkil laughed, and the dimple deepened in his cheek.  “I’m not like the King.”      
  
Tigôn opened his mouth but could not think of a single clever retort. Instead, he shut the door firmly in Darîkil’s face.  Even though his ‘fair white arse’ was rather sore from what Sûla had put it through last night, in truth, their time together had been the best of his life. Now, his head seemed filled with mud and his throat with sand. How could such a glorious night have turned into this nightmare?  
  
Quickly, he pulled on his woolen hose, then changed his tunic, stepped into his boots, splashed water on his face and ran a comb through his hair. While he was getting ready, he tried hard not to panic. What in Arda had happened to Sûla?  Did he really kill Dulginzin?  Tigôn thought it unlikely Sûla would have done anything so stupid, but then he recalled the level of anger in his friend’s voice last night. _He had better watch out. Some day he’ll meet with an accident, if I have anything to say about it!_ What if, after Sûla had gone back to the room that morning, Dulginzin had hurt him, and Sûla had struck back, accidentally killing him?  That could have happened, easily.  
  
This was terrible!  Tigôn knew what they would do to his friend. . . , his lover, Tigôn corrected himself, if they caught him, and the pain in his heart increased. Oh, Sûla, he thought. Why? When everything seemed to be going well?  Then he had another thought. What if Sûla was caught and tortured into confessing where he had spent the night?    
  
Tigôn collapsed on the bed and pressed his hands to his temples, momentarily overwhelmed with anguish.  It does no good to panic, he thought.  You know nothing yet.  Maybe there’s another explanation. Go find out what exactly happened.  But first . . . he shoved the mail shirt under his bed, recorked the oil bottle and put it in his pack, then opened the balcony door to let the room air.    
  
When he finally left his room, Darîkil was leaning sullenly against the wall.  He popped upright. “You took your time, O prudish one,” he said. “I wondered if you were hiding one of the Regent’s zirâmîthin in there. Let’s go, quickly now. I don’t want a beating.  The King looked fair fit to wield the lash himself.”  
  
He sprinted off down the hall and Tigôn followed on his heels, feeling as if the roof was caving in.    
  
****************         
                                  
The Lord Izindor stood before Pharazôn, twisting and writhing more than usual in his grief and fury. The room was rife with tension.    
  
“My Lord,” Izindor cried, “we must be swift to declare him an enemy of the realm and send soldiers after him.  The little son of a whore cannot have gotten far.  I claim the right of vengeance.  The right to gut him myself.”  
  
“Izindor,” Pharazôn warned, “are you presuming to tell me how I should administer justice?”  
  
The Lord of Arandor’s face blanched. “No, of course not, my Lord.”  
  
Annatar stirred. “We do not yet know if Sûla is the culprit,” he said in a soothing voice.    
  
“Indeed,” Pharazôn agreed. “We’re talking about my cupbearer and a trusted servant. I would never have sent him to attend your son if I thought him capable of harm. I’m finding it hard to believe that he would do something like this without provocation.”      
      
“How could it be anyone else?” Izindor cried.  “My son’s servant Pâroth saw Dulginzin take Sûla into his room last night.  When Pâroth went in to shave my son this morning, well, there he was, just as I described to you.” Izindor’s jaw worked for a moment. “And the little bitch had fled. Besides Sûla had reason . . .”  He stopped.  
  
“What were you about to say, Lord Izindor?” Annatar said.  “He had good reason to kill your son?”  
  
“The boy was proud,” Izindor replied sullenly.  “After serving you, my King, apparently, he thought he was too good for anyone else.”  
  
“That’s not what he told _me_ ,” Annatar said, looking at Izindor with unblinking golden eyes. Pharazôn was reminded of a panther watching a deer from the underbrush.    
  
“What?” Izindor stiffened.      
  
Pharazôn turned to Annatar.  “What did Sûla say to you?” he growled.  
  
“It was the day after I surrendered and you took me captive. Sûla came to bring me a meal and I could tell all was not well with him.  His face was tense and streaked with tears.  When I asked him what had happened, he said that Dulginzin tried to rape him in the camp and that Lord Izindor gave him gold to keep silent about it.”  
  
“Sûla never told me this,” Pharazôn declared, his temper mounting.     
  
Annatar tilted his head, coyly. “He was afraid to tell you because our friend here said he would swear before the Bawîba Manô priests that Sûla tried to seduce Dulginzin. Sûla didn’t think you would believe his side of the story.  Isn’t that right, Izindor?”  
  
“No, that’s a lie!” Izindor cried. “Everyone in camp knows you were the one who tried to seduce the zirâmîki, for which offense the King rightly punished you. Why should we believe anything you say!”  
  
“Ah, well, the truth can always be discerned when we examine cause and effect, personalities and motivations,” Annatar replied airily. “All of us at the banquet witnessed your son making a fool of himself drooling over Sûla’s charms.  As you’ll recall, he was so enamored that he squandered the King’s boon for one night with the boy.  I also saw Sûla’s reaction, which I would characterize as one of revulsion, consistent with a prior unwanted encounter.  Wouldn’t you agree, my Lord?”    
  
Somewhat guiltily, Pharazôn remembered Sûla’s abject pleas the night before not to be sent to Dulginzin’s chambers.  It made sense now.  Why hadn’t Sûla explained why he didn’t want to go?  If he had, Pharazôn told himself, he would never have sent him. So, Sûla had brought this on himself.  Had that wretched Dulginzin tried to help himself to one of his possessions?  If so, he deserved what he got, but Pharazôn had to admit this revelation only made it more likely that Sûla was guilty of murder and he would hate to have to hang such a delightful bed partner. But he might have no choice. He cleared his throat. “Sûla told me he did not want to go to your son last night.  Now I see why.”  
  
“There could be many other explanations for the courtesan’s reaction,” Izindor said, darting a furious glance at Annatar. “I deny your claims. In any event, he is a slave and has no rights. Do the Lords of the Realm not have a claim on their King for justice?”  Suddenly, his demeanor changed.  Shaking, he covered his face in his hands and moaned, “Oh my boy, my boy.”     
  
“I assure you,” Pharazôn said. “We will find the murderer and you’ll have your vengeance.  I will send out a decree calling for Sûla’s immediate arrest.  Anyone caught harboring him will be executed. Will that satisfy you?”  
  
“I wish to interrogate him myself,” Izindor said.  
  
“You’ll have your opportunity at the trial.” Pharazôn replied.  
  
“There is to be a trial?” Izindor asked.  
  
“Of course, even though a slave, his guilt is in doubt, and I have unique means at my disposal to discover the truth.”  Pharazôn glanced at Annatar, who smiled creamily.  The sorcerer blinked and Pharazôn had a sudden thought.  “Did you move the body?”  
  
“No, my Lord,” Izindor said. “I came here immediately.  I was worried that the longer we waited, the more time the little bitch had to get away.”  
  
“Azgarad, go investigate,” Pharazôn growled, “and bring me back a report. I’m finding all of this extremely suspicious and I wouldn’t be surprised if you,” he pointed at the shaking Regent, “are at the bottom of all of it.”  
  
“My Lord, please, please, I know nothing about Lord Dulginzin!” Rabêlozar stammered.  
  
“Shut up! Get him out of my sight,” Pharazôn roared. “By the Curse of Mandos, what is keeping my pages?”     
  
**************  
Gasping for breath, Sûla slammed his back against a crumbling mud wall in one of Umbar’s back alleys.  Nearby, a skinny dog ceased bolting down something revolting and eyed him, its upper lip drawn back in a snarl. Sûla found the dog much too symbolic of what he was likely to become, that is, if he were lucky. Unlucky, and he’d be hanging from the palace gate, riddled with crows. _Get a hold of yourself,_ he thought. _If you were playing bones, you’d be near to throwing naught. It’s a delicate game now.  You can’t be running, dressed in such finery.  You’ll draw suspicion._

As his breathing eased, he considered his next move.  His aunt lived somewhere in the weaver’s section of town, at least that’s what he remembered from the last time he’d visited as a ten-year-old boy.  After a particularly vicious beating, his mother had briefly left his step-father and sought her sister’s house in Umbar.  As he recalled, his aunt had not been pleased to feed them, although she had fussed a lot over his looks, cooing about how pretty he was and warning him about slavers. One day his mother left and took him back home to their village in Brûni. Sûla had never been sure why, but suspected she and her sister had a falling out. So, his aunt was a gamble, but  his best option until he could purchase a horse and escape into the countryside.  After all, he was not that naive boy anymore.  He had become quite good at charming and negotiating his way around tricky situations. And this time he didn’t come as a poor relative but as someone important, privy to the inner councils of the King –  and wearing gold.  That must be worth something.  

But for now, it was time to doff the trappings of a zirâmîki. Gathering in a shaky breath, he looked for a horse trough and carefully washed the remaining paint from his face, combed his hair through with his fingers and adjusted his clothes. With a sigh, he drew off his rings, one by one, along with the garnet circlet from his forehead, and the dangling, golden earrings, and stuffed the lot in a pocket he found in Tigôn’s jacket.  The wide golden bracelets still decorated his wrists but he thought that gave him a warrior’s mien. Pulling the hood over his head again, he emerged from the alley into a main thoroughfare near the grand market.

The market was already awake with people setting up their stalls under the flapping awnings, while others huddled around coal braziers, drinking hot goat’s milk and honey in ceramic tankards and eating fresh-baked rolls.  The smell made Sûla’s mouth water.  It had been a long night since he’d sat at the King’s table, and he had not eaten much before Dulginzin’s demand had made him lose all appetite.  Putting on his best smile, he approached a friendly-looking old woman who was setting out jewelry on the table in front of her shop.

“Hello Mother,” he said.  “Cold morning, isn’t it?”

“Sooth,” she replied, and looked up at him squinting her eyes in the sun.  A quick glance and she immediately became deferential.  “What might I do for you, young sir?”  She gestured.  “I have lovely baubles here to grace a man of means such as yourself.”

Sûla couldn’t help preening a bit. Drawing his hood back from his face, he stopped for a moment and looked at the wares, mostly made of thin wire and glass beads, definitely too cheap for the King’s cupbearer who had become used to solid gold and bright jewels.  Well, those days were done. A wave of mourning washed over him, so that he nearly burst into tears.  All his plotting and sacrifice for naught! But keeping up a brave front, he admired several pieces. Then he said, “Perhaps, I’ll come back, but just now I’m looking for Kathalômi the weaver.  I have heard she does good work.”

The woman frowned and hesitated.  For a moment Sûla worried that his aunt had died or left town, but then she said, “I’ve not seen you around before and I would surely remember your face, pretty as it is. But you look like one of us and speak Umbarian as born to it.”

“I’m originally from up the coast," he lied. "I’ve been hired as a requisition officer with the Númenórean king’s army and I’m looking to lay in supplies for the voyage.”

“Ah well,” she said. “There’s quite a few of you about, in’t there?  Good for business, I daresay.  Yeah, I know that one, Kathalômi, and it’s true she does good work when she wishes.  I can better recommend my sister-in-law.  She keeps a shop called the Black Dolphin.”

Sûla inclined his head.  “I shall be sure to look her up.  Where is the weaver’s quarter?”

“A bit of a walk from here, east of town. Go down to the crossroad there,” she pointed, “turn right and follow it all the way until you see the signboards.”

“Thank you, Mother.  May Zizzûn smile on you.” Sûla made an elaborate courtly bow that caused the woman to grin gap-toothed at him.  He moved off before his growling stomach could cast doubt on his disguise.

A breeze came up and began blowing hard.  He bent forward into it, disguising himself by shuffling like an old man and holding the hood close about his face.  As rapidly as he could in this fashion, he made his way down the streets past the pot-makers, the herbalists, and the metal smiths until he reached the weaver’s quarter with signboards showing pattern specialties.  He asked several passersby and finally a tall man directed him to a shop down a narrow lane.

Sûla slunk down the alley and then paused in front of the vaguely familiar, sagging wooden door.  It would be better to appear prosperous. He reached under his cloak for his pocket, put one of his rings back on, and slid the earrings in his lobes, leaving the rest of the jewelry hidden.  Lifting a fist to the door, he had a crisis in courage.  What if she cast him out?  Where would he go next?  He was about at his wit’s end. But there was nothing for it, but to trust to family, such as it was.  _Please, my Lord Zizzûn,_ he prayed fervently.  _You’ve not been overly kind today.  Have I not paid my dues?  I promise to make sacrifice to you if this goes well._ And, with that, he knocked.

He waited and then knocked again.  And again.  Finally, he was about to pound the door down, when it was opened with a pop by a small, grim-faced woman with dishevelled grey hair, strong features, and yellowed bags under her eyes.  Although her face had changed, now looking older and more weather-beaten, Sûla recognized her as his aunt.

“We are not open yet,” she snarled.  Then her eyes widened as she took him in. “Forgive me, sir,” she said more softly.  “We are not accustomed to clients this early.  Come in.”  
Relieved to be quit of the all-too-public street, Sûla entered the darkened house.

The front room’s bareness spoke of poverty. But there was a small fire burning on the hearth next to the great loom with a half-finished piece on it.  Sûla was grateful for the warmth and moved over to put out his hands.  Kathalômi eyed him, hugging a robe woven in stripes of red and black about herself. She had deep lines around her mouth, giving her a pinched, forbidding look.

“What may I do for you?” she said. “I’m working on a commission now, but it will soon be finished.  And we have other pieces, not many just now, but there,” she gestured at shelves with a dozen bolts of colored cloth.

Sûla pulled his hood off his head, then turned around to look her squarely in the eye.  “Do you not recognize me, Aunt?”

She squinted at him and then her face lit.  “Sûla? Could that be you?”  He nodded and her lips twitched into a smile, making her almost handsome.  Sûla’s bone structure was clearly from this side of his family. “Oh, let me look at you.”  She walked around him.  “How you’ve come up in the world from that little mite of Saibêth’s,” she said.  “Such finery!  Why, we heard you served in the Númenórean King’s court.  Is it true?”

“It is,” he said. “Cupbearer to Ar-Pharazôn himself.”

“And you took time out to come visit your old aunt!”  Kathalômi reached out a bony hand and grasped his shoulder. “Here am I, not even properly dressed to receive you.” She grabbed up a stool from behind her loom and set it next to the fire.  “Now you sit down right here while I get dressed.  Would you like something to eat?”

“That would be lovely,” he said, trying not to sound too eager.

“I’ll be back shortly.  Don’t go away.  I want to hear everything.”  

I doubt that, Sûla thought.

It wasn’t long until Kathalômi returned and beckoned at him.  “Come back to the kitchen, Sûla.”  He followed her through several sparsely furnished rooms filled with clutter and sat down at a small table while his aunt took the cloth from a loaf of rye bread and set out salted sardines, olives, and some watered wine.  “It’s not much,” she apologized, “but I wasn’t expecting you.”  
Sûla averred that it was more than enough, and loaded sardines and olives onto a slice of the bread. “Where is Uncle Yakalud?” he asked before taking a bite.

Kathalômi sat in a chair across from him and poured herself a cup of wine from a battered jug.  Sûla noticed that her hand shook.  “You remember my son, Nûluroth?”

“Of course,” Sûla said.  

“He joined the Númenórean army to fight the Haradrim and disappeared two years ago.  Yakalud went looking for him.  I haven’t seen either of them since.”  The corners of her eyes drooped with sorrow.  

        
“I’m sorry,” Sûla replied.

“Yeah, well, it’s been hard, very hard trying to make it by myself,” Kathalômi said. “There is no one now to help with the business and it’s a lot of work, let me tell you. The price of cotton and dye have gone up since the war last spring. I have a lodger, an older man, but he’s not much help.  He fishes and when he brings back a catch, takes the money right off to the gambling dens. I have to threaten to throw him out before he’ll pay his keep.”      

“That is unfortunate. Have you heard from my mother?” Sûla asked.

“Not in several years.”

“I was wondering how she fared.”    

“Do you have time to travel down to Brûni?”

Sûla hesitated, unprepared for the wave of anger that came over him. Kathalômi looked at him shrewdly.  “No,” he said shortly.  “I wouldn’t go near the place.”

“Ah, well, can’t say as I blame you,” Kathalômi said. “From what I heard.” She finished her cup and poured another.

“What did you hear?” Sûla asked.  “Do you know what they did to me?”

His aunt took another swig from her mug, then sat back in her chair. “About four years ago, Saibêth came to stay with me.  She said her worthless husband, Khunig, had brought you here and sold you to the Númenóreans. She came to look for you, but by then they had taken you West over the water.”

Sûla tasted bile and had to force himself to swallow. Well he remembered that day.  His step-father had brought him along on the pretext of needing help hauling goods back from market. He had been uncommonly pleasant, buying him some cheap jewelry and a nice tunic and renting him a tub at one of the bathhouses. Then, in the dead of night, Sûla had been hauled from bed by rough hands and thrown in the slave pens.  He was auctioned the next day and when it was done, he saw the buyer counting out money to Khunig.  His step-father cast an ugly look at him as he was shoved off the block. He would never forget that feeling of betrayal.  The rest he did not want to remember.  His answer was short.  “Yes, it’s true.”

“You know your mother was distraught at what he’d done and left him for a time.  That’s why she came to see me. She stayed . . . for a several months. That was a rough summer.”

“You said you hadn’t seen her in a while. Where is she?” Sûla asked.

Kathalômi shrugged.  “I hate to say this, Sûla, but your mother is a weak woman.  She went back to him.”  Belying her words, Kathalômi appeared to relish the fact.  

   
Sûla should have felt something, anything, but it was as if he were dead inside.  He drained the last of his watered wine.

“Nice earrings,” Kathalômi said, reaching out to flick one of them.  Sûla could feel its weight shifting on his earlobe.

“A gift from the King,” Sûla replied.

“It doesn’t look as if you’ve done so badly for yourself, after all,” she said. One finger traced along his cheekbone over the bruise where Dulginzin had struck him. “Huh,” she said. “So, tell, me, Sûla, why are you here? And don’t say it’s because you wanted to see me. We both know better.”   

He thought of lying and then realized it would do him no good. No doubt they would send guards to look for him and gossip flew quickly around the docks and market. She would soon learn the truth. He said, “I need your help, Aunt.”

Her face grew hard.  “I thought so. What have you done?”

“Nothing. I’m innocent, I swear.  But it appears as if I’ve done something bad.  Very bad indeed.  I need you to hide me.”

Her mouth thinned.  He could see the ravages of fear in her face.  Her eyes roved over him.  “Have you done something to the Númenórean King? If so, there’s nowhere in Ennor to hide.”

“No, no,” Sûla said.  “Nothing to do with the King. It’s . . . there’s been a murder and whoever did it made sure it looked like it was me.”

“Well,” she said, sitting back.  She shook her head.

“Think of the advantages I could offer you,” Sûla said quickly. “I’m young and strong and smart. I could help with your business here.  I’ve learned much in the King’s court about negotiating.  I’ve been well-trained and have manners fit for wealthy households. I can get more clients, bargain for your supplies, and help with the weaving.  And I’m uncommonly good at playing bones.  I promise, I’d be able to double your earnings. More than that.”

“I don’t believe in gambling,” she said. “The odds are stacked against you. In the end, you lose everything.”

Sûla’s mouth quirked. “You haven’t seen me working a set of bones, Aunt. You’ll believe in it again. I swear by Zizzûn’s dice.”

He could see in the slow flicker of her eyes that she was considering it.  Time to nail the bargain.  He stood, shrugged Dulginzin’s magnificent dark blue cape with the ermine lining onto the chair and then unbuttoned Tigôn’s woolen jacket and drew it off so that he stood bare-chested, shivering a bit in the chill. The golden dragon curled on his upper arm, ruby eyes winking in the half-light. He touched it reverently.  “I have assets that I’m prepared to sell.  This is worth a fistful of gold, at least twenty abarîm. You will live well, I promise.” 

Kathalômi’s eyes gleamed. “That’s a very distinctive piece. Did you steal it?”

“No! It’s mine. The King gave me this for good service.  I swear!”

Kathalômi smiled tightly. “You are very persuasive, nephew.  And I confess, I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for you. Very well, by Zizzûn, you have a bargain.”  She thumped her fist twice on the table and then offered her hand to Sûla.  He took it.

“Thank you, Aunt.  I shall not forget your kindness.”

He’d convinced her; he was safe. Sûla put the jacket back on, and suddenly overcome by exhaustion, struggled to do up the buttons.  He sat down again and his eyes began to close on their own.  He jerked them open.

“You seem tired,” Kathalômi said gently.  She set a hand on top of his.  

“I was up all night,” Sûla said. “Please, is there a place you can hide me, where I can lie down for a bit?”

She nodded.  “My supply shed.  Come.”

Sûla followed her out the back door and across the yard past some cackling chickens, to a shed.  Kathalômi had to lift the sagging door to let him into the cold, dark interior, splashed with narrow lines of light coming through slats in the wood.  “Back here,” she said, indicating a pile of lumpy sacks lying underneath a shelf.  “You can lie down on these and I’ll hang a blanket so you’re out of sight.”

The sacks looked dusty and were pungent with the greasy smell of wool.  Sûla sighed and ducking his head, crawled under the shelf.  At least the wool sacks made for a soft, if somewhat lumpy, bed.  He spread the cloak over himself. Meanwhile Kathalômi shook the dust from a striped cotton blanket and hung it over the opening.  Sûla heard her moving heavy objects on the shelf to hold it down.  He sighed again, shut his eyes, and slipped into blesséd oblivion.

     
*********************      
Notes:       
Igmil - means “star-shaped figure” in canon Adûnaic  
Belza - the name is a fragment of an untranslated canon Adûnaic name. No word 'belza' has been identified with certainty; it exists as a hypothetical element of the name Belzagar. Thanks Malinornë.  
zirâmîthin- plural of zirâmîth which is a feminine form of zirâmiki. The word is formed from canon Adûnaic meaning beloved + young girl, but the combination is an elfscribe invention.  
Kathalômi - Sûla’s aunt, means roughly ‘all night’ in Adûnaic  
Yakalud - invented Adûnaic name for Sûla’s uncle.  
Nûluroth - invented Adûnaic name for Sûla’s cousin, roughly meaning “night foam”  
Saibêth - Sûla’s mother. Means “assent” in Adûnaic  
abarîm - invented Adûnaic for gold pieces, like a sovereign.  Abara would be one gold piece. Name is related to bâr - lord    


	21. The King's Decree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ar-Pharazôn issues a decree for Sûla’s arrest and sends Tigôn to get the ingredients Annatar needs for his various potions. Annatar entices Tigôn with promises of help for Sûla, and Azgarad, the King’s Steward, and Amandil begin plotting together to counter Annatar.

“By Ossë’s nutsack, it took you long enough!” Ar-Pharazôn barked when Tigôn and Darîkil presented themselves in the receiving room of the King’s bedchamber, already crowded with officials and servants. Darîkil cast a disapproving glance at Tigôn as if to say, ‘See!’

Tigôn noticed that the King was not his usual well-groomed self, apparently having just come from bed. He wore a dressing robe and no crown; his sable hair hung curling about his unshaven face and hooded eyes. Tigôn and Darîkil advanced past the crowd of staring courtiers, and dropped to their knees in front of the King. Tigôn now had a good view of his bare feet with their broad, crooked toes.

“Please forgive me, my Lord. I was slow to wake,” Tigôn said. “What is your will?”

“I’ll address you in a moment, Tigôn,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted. Seemingly mollified, the King ruffled Tigôn’s curly hair, a rather intimate gesture. Tigôn had to suppress his impulse to jerk away. That was not the hand he wanted.

“Darîkil, take this decree.” The King gestured at his head of household, Nibanuzîr, who hurried over with a scroll in his hand. “Go with the men at arms here, find Umbar’s crier, and tell him to proclaim throughout the streets that the Umbarian slave, Sûla, Cupbearer to the High King of Númenor, is wanted on suspicion of murder. He is to be found, arrested, and remanded to the custody of the King’s guards, but not to be harmed. Anyone caught harboring him will be imprisoned. There is a reward of, what did we say, Nibanuzîr? Ten? Ten abarim for information leading to his capture. Go quickly now.”

Darîkil rose, bowed, glanced importantly at Tigôn, and then left with the guards.

“Now then, Hazûn.” The King beckoned and Tigôn recognized the grim-faced man who had captured Annatar on that fateful morning nine days ago and since had been promoted to head of the Royal Guard. “You know what my zirâmîki Sûla looks like?” Ar-Pharazôn asked. Hazûn nodded. “Take a company into Umbar and find him. Instruct all your men – he’s to be brought back unharmed, and put into a well-watched cell in the palace prison.”

“Yes, my King. It will be done as you command,” Hazûn said and exited with a swirl of his red cloak.

Tigôn wished he could ease the clenching in his gut. This was hideous. Where was Sûla? He remembered his last glimpse of him climbing nimbly over the balcony in his borrowed woolen jacket, black silk trousers, and bare feet. Tigôn felt a wave of tenderness, coupled with fear. Could he be hiding in the palace? Or in some back alley of Umbar? What could Tigôn do to help him? Nothing, he could do nothing.

Ar-Pharazôn turned to him. “And now, my boy, I’m giving you an easy task, since I sent you on the difficult mission to the Haradren encampment. But mind, this one is no less exacting. The Lord Annatar will give you a list of items to be procured in the market. You are to follow his instructions precisely, to the word. Understood?” Tigôn nodded. “Lord Azgarad will give you enough coin, as soon as he gets back. Annatar, show him your list.”

The Zigûr came forward, brandishing a piece of paper. His normally smooth gait was marred by a slight hitch and Tigôn could see he was favoring a foot.

Annatar said, “If you please, my Lord, I will need time to instruct him, as many of the items are very specific and require explanation. Precision in the ingredients is key to the success of the formula. But, my Lord, I don’t want these trifles to keep you from your business here. Might I speak with him in my chambers?”

“Begone then,” the King waved, impatiently. “This day has begun most unpleasantly and I find myself missing my favorite body slave. Nibanuzîr, I wish to be dressed and have some breakfast before reviewing petitions this morning.”

“Of course, my Lord King,” Nibanuzîr said.

Tigôn rose, and bowed deeply. He glanced at Annatar, who was regarding him through lowered eyelids. An easy task? Why did he have the feeling it would not prove so easy? Annatar made a perfunctory bow to the King, who wasn’t paying attention since a servant was busy prepping him for a shave, and then he turned and led the way out of the room into the chilled hallway. Two guards followed. Tigôn recognized one of them, a man named Narûkh.

Annatar paused and allowed Tigôn to catch up. “So, you’re the one,” he said mysteriously.

“What?” Tigôn said, glancing up at him: tall, black-robed, and menacing in his fiery beauty. Tigôn’s stomach clenched again and Annatar’s mouth quirked. They continued on down the lamplit hall, their footsteps echoing on tile. The Zigûr’s shadow seemed to loom larger than his and Narukh’s, striding ever one step ahead of them. If Tigôn squinted his eyes, he thought he could see dark wings rising from it.

Here and there, they encountered groups of servants whispering to each other, ‘did you hear . . .?’ ‘dead in his cell . . . ,’ ‘the Zigûr said . . . .’ Upon the sorcerer’s approach, they looked up startled, and scuttled off like roaches.

Annatar sucked a breath through his teeth, seemingly in pain. The dark shadow dwindled into human stature.

“What happened?” Tigôn said. “To your foot.”

“Your sovereign’s idea of theatrics happened,” Annatar snarled. “Not that I blame him. I might have done the same thing myself, had our roles been reversed. We’re birds of a feather, your King and I.”

“Why doesn’t that fill me with confidence?” Tigôn replied. It slipped out before he considered whether or not it was wise to speak so freely. He glanced at Narûkh’s grim face, which did not reveal anything. Tigôn had assumed such a blank expression himself many a time in the King’s presence. Often it was wise to be deaf to what others said.

Annatar halted. “You’re rather forward, for a page.”

“Forgive me, Lord Annatar,” Tigôn said. “It has been an upsetting morning.”

“That it has.”

They said no more until they reached a room located off the main corridor. The guards at the door admitted them. “Knock when you’re ready to leave,” Narûkh said shortly after coming in and making a cursory check of the room. He left and Tigôn heard a lock snick behind them, filling him with trepidation.

He found himself in a chamber with walls lined in thin bronze sheets. On the wall opposite hung a large tapestry showing elves battling an immense horned dragon. Tigôn was suddenly reminded of the dragon in his dream after the battle at Arzog’s Pass.

Annatar was watching him, his face still as a mask. He shifted his eyes in the direction of the tapestry. “Meant to be Glaurung, the Terrible. Not a good likeness. I should know.”

Tigôn didn’t need the reminder of just who he was dealing with. How could the King bear the Zigûr’s company for any length of time? To him, the sorcerer seemed like a bonfire – beautiful to look at, but deadly to touch. The very air around him crackled like an approaching storm.

With a hiss, Annatar sank down in the padded chair by a small table. He slid his foot from his sandal, lifted it onto his knee with one hand, and unwrapped the bandage to examine it. The foot appeared swollen and red. “This is most inconvenient,” Annatar declared. “No bones broken, but considerable bruising to the flesh. This is why you must be exacting about the items you bring back from the market. I can’t afford to have any more problems. Carefully, he set his foot down on a low stool. Now then, mîki, come over here and I’ll explain what I need and how you’re to obtain it.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Tigôn came as close as he dared and watched Annatar smooth out the list on the table. It was covered with strange symbols written in a flowing hand. Tigôn recognized the elvish script used to create the words, but when he tried to read it, the writing seemed to blur.

“Pay close attention to what I’m about to tell you,” Annatar said. “Do you need to take notes?”

“No, my Lord.” Tigôn tapped his temple. “I remember long messages from the King. I’m told I have a gift for it.”

“Do you indeed? Perhaps you’re smarter than most around here.” Annatar twisted the fall of bright red hair out of his way over his shoulder. “Some of these ingredients you can get from any good herbal market in town but others can only be obtained from a specialist. Therefore, I’m sending you to a man named Magân. If my sources are still correct, he owns a shop called Azûlada Batan. As the name implies, it’s in the eastern part of town. It is important that you buy the ingredients only from him. I hear there is a signboard out front sporting a coiling black serpent. He has a similar tattoo on his forearm and will have his hair braided in numerous small plaits tied off at the end in red strips of cloth.”

“One of the Lorcastra!” Tigôn exclaimed.

“Oh, so you know of them,” Annatar said.

“Yes,” Tigôn said tightly. He’d heard Ikar-lak, head of the Bawîba Manô, railing about them to the King, saying they were a scourge on Umbar, a sect of Zizzûn’s cult that practiced black magic, and that they were secretly in league with the Haradrim.

Annatar’s lip curled. “Ah then, little page, you know to be very careful around him.When you come with this list, Magân will ask who sent you. Say Zizzûn’s counselor and make this sign.” He put a finger on his right eyelid, drawing it shut.

Tigôn nodded. This was getting to be more and more like his foray into Aksan’s camp. He came around behind the Zigûr to look at the list over his shoulder. “I can’t read it,” he said flatly. “How will I know what to get?”

Annatar chuckled. “Do you think I want to give away my secrets? Magân can read it. However, you need to know a few things so he doesn’t cheat you. This one,” his finger hovered over a series of symbols, “is drake horn. He’ll try to give you a whole piece, but I don’t want that, I want a powder and it must be black and the full three miyâr, about a handful, no less.”

“Drake horn?” Tigôn gasped. “Where in Ennor would he obtain that?”

“Some things are not for you to know, boy,” Annatar said. “Are you going to keep interrupting so that this takes all day?”

Tigôn shook his head and Annatar went back to the list, running the finger alongside the wavering symbols. “And this is . . .,” he said a word that sounded like a hissing curse, and Tigôn suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He choked. Annatar raised his eyes. “Ah, I forget, you men cannot bear the sound of my tongue.” Tigôn had the distinct impression he was amused and that the slip had been no lapse in his memory at all. “This one is a root,” Annatar continued. “It must be plump and fresh, not dried, and have three rootlets, like fingers, coming from it. See here?” He formed his hand into a strange shape. Tigôn nodded. “And this one . . .”

Tigôn listened feverishly to a long list of specifications, wondering if, in fact, he’d remember them all. His brain seemed to be going numb and his thoughts kept straying to Sûla, wondering where he was. Perhaps he had hidden away in a trader’s wain and was far away from the city. Tigôn could only hope.

Then, in the midst of a sentence, something strange happened. Annatar froze. His eyes seemed to follow something across the room that Tigôn could not see. It was positively eerie. “My Lord?” Tigôn said tentatively, and then nearly jumped out of his skin when a strange voice came out of the wizard, silken and higher pitched than his wont.

“You think you’ve won. Just remember, I’m here, always here with you. You cannot escape me. I’m amused to think that it’s your own doing – a just recompense for your crimes.”  
The language was not Adûnaic. Tigôn recognized Sindarin, the forbidden tongue that his family used in the privacy of their own home. Was the sorcerer addressing him? He wasn’t looking at him. It was most alarming. Tigôn bent down. “I beg your pardon?”

Annatar’s eyes refocused. He clutched the neck of his robe, breathing heavily, and then glared up at Tigôn. “You see how the pain is affecting me!” he cried in his normal voice, although instead of his usual purr, he snarled with fury. Tigôn cringed, stepping back so swiftly that he nearly fell.

Annatar inhaled several deep shuddering breaths; his nostrils flared. There was a long silence. Then he spoke in quieter tones. “Getting the right medicine is of utmost urgency. I certainly can’t brew the King’s elixir in such pain. Bring me a glass of the tea in the pitcher over there.”

Tigôn dutifully did as he was told, noticing that the liquid was greenish in color. He recognized that smell – morthul, a narcotic. He wondered if the Zigûr’s foot was making him feverish. How else to explain that strange lapse? He brought a mug back to the Zigûr, who rapidly downed it, then sat back, looking pale and shaken, cupping it in his hands. He looked at Tigôn. “Better. Now, do you remember all that I told you?”

“I think so,” Tigôn said.

“I must be sure. Repeat it,” Annatar said. And Tigôn found himself reciting Annatar’s instructions. Periodically the Zigûr corrected him until he finally seemed satisfied. “I can see why the King chose you to deliver his message to the Haradrim,” Annatar said. He looked into Tigon’s face and unexpectedly smiled with a bright flash of teeth as winning as his strange behavior had been unnerving a few moments ago.

Tigôn experienced a shiver of intense arousal, similar to what he’d felt with Sûla last night. He thought, _Oh no, the King is in trouble. We’re all in trouble._ He folded his arms protectively around himself.

“Give me your hand,” Annatar said. Reluctantly, Tigôn found himself slowly extending his hand. Annatar took it in a warm grip, and closed his eyes. “As I sensed,” he said. “You are the perfect messenger. Incorruptible, brave, and loyal – without cause may I say, since you are expendable as far as the King is concerned.” He looked at Tigôn again. “I hope you appreciated your little friend’s intercession on your behalf. Do you know that you owe me a debt?”

“I do?” Tigôn removed his hand. Expendable! Annatar had hit his concern right on the head. The King hadn’t even seemed relieved that night when he finally showed up to deliver the message he’d nearly died to retrieve. Intercession? Did he mean Sûla’s spell? “What did you do?” Tigôn asked warily.

“I helped Sûla put up the shield that protected you while you were in the Haradren encampment. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

“I noticed,” Tigôn replied. “If indeed you did that, I suppose I owe you thanks.”

Annatar eyed him with a smirk. “You are a smart one, indeed. As a precautionary measure, I’ll extend the shield around you while you visit Magân. You never know what he might decide to do. You can thank me by bringing back my ingredients forthwith, exactly as I specified.”

“I would do so, anyway,” Tigôn said, “because I do the King’s bidding, not yours.” He paused, his suspicions rising like sea jellies. “Did you teach Sûla the freezing spell?”

Annatar smiled. “How much does his embrace mean to you?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“How far are you willing to go to save your lover?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you . . .”

“Oh yes, you do,” Annatar hissed. “I know where Sûla spent the night. I can _smell_ him on you.” Tigôn’s heart began to thud. “Wouldn’t you say that was a dangerous dalliance? And rather disloyal to your sovereign to whom you owe allegiance and whose property Sûla is?”

Tigôn tried to shift his glance but it seemed locked onto the Zigûr’s unblinking eyes. He stared at the slitted pupils that opened onto pitiless black depths. Panic took hold of him. “I, I don’t know what you’re talking about. He didn’t . . .,” he stammered.

“Do you think you can lie to me, boy?” Annatar declared. “I am a Truthsayer.” He reached out and again seized Tigôn’s hand. Tigôn yelped and attempted to pull back, but Annatar’s sudden grip nearly crushed his bones. “Hold still a moment,” Annatar said.

“No, no!” Tigôn cried.

“Foolish boy!” Annatar said. “I know what lies between you and the King’s zirâmîki. Don’t think I haven’t felt it building for a while now. Do you want to save him? Or would you rather see him fed to the crows?”

Tigôn stilled. He said nothing, suddenly feeling both hopeful and afraid.

“Ah yes,” Annatar said. “Much better. I’m your best ally just now. I have ways to discover the truth. If Sûla is innocent, and I suspect he is, as that is what my senses are telling me, the King shall know it. If not, then there is nothing I can do to save him. Now, open your mind so I can see what happened.”

“Why do I need to do that?” Tigôn asked, nervously. “I can tell you what happened. He left Lord Dulginzin’s chambers and came to my room sometime after midnight. Shortly before sunrise he left. He was concerned that Lord Dulginzin would wake before he could get back. If Sûla had killed him, I imagine he’d have fled immediately and not wasted time with me. It would be too risky.” Tigôn searched his memory. He’d detected nothing amiss with Sûla last night. Surely he wasn’t so brazen that he could have killed a man and then come to play lover’s games with him? No, there had been nothing in Sûla’s warm embrace that indicated he’d killed a lord.

“Perhaps he did it after he left you?” Annatar mused, stroking his chin.

Tigôn kept silent. Annatar had hit upon his own fears. “You said your senses told you he was innocent. What makes you think that?”

“I have an ability to read certain portents,” Annatar replied. “My senses are usually accurate, even if I don’t yet know the details.” His lip curled.

“But you don’t know the details yet?” Tigôn persisted.

“No, that’s why I want to read your memory and see if there is anything there that can help.”

“My memories are my own,” Tigôn replied stubbornly.

Annatar laughed. “Keep your privacy then. May your memories of lust in the night comfort you while you watch Izindor rip out Sûla’s intestines as he struggles on the gallows.”

That hit Tigôn like a mule’s kick. He crumpled to the floor. “Please, can you help him?” he begged, trying his best to keep back the tears. “You say you’re a Truthsayer. How can you find out who really did it?”

“I can investigate. The King has already allowed me full rein to use my abilities in pursuit of the truth.”

“And what if Sûla did do it?” Tigôn asked.

“Then he’ll pay for it, won’t he? That is, unless he can keep hidden from the King’s men. Perhaps we could aid him in that regard, huh? Now then . . .” Annatar pulled a chalk from a pocket in his robe, bent down, drew a circle on the floor, then wrote something around the perimeter. “Kneel just there,” he instructed.

Tigôn felt as if his will were draining away, leaving desperation in its place. He shuffled on his knees onto the circle and shuddered when Annatar put his smooth hands on his face. Annatar closed his eyes again.

The room around them began to blur. Tigôn felt as if he were whirling around and around. He heard the Zigûr’s purring voice speaking incomprehensible words that nevertheless cut him to the bone. Questions came swooping at him like bats. “When did you first notice Sûla? What did you think of him? Why did you go to meet him in the King’s tent?”

Too late he realized what he might reveal and resisted fiercely, but it hurt like a hundred hammers in his brain. Then came a sweet voice, petting and caressing. It said, _You have a strong will, young messenger, but you must open your thoughts and let me in if I am to save your lover. That is what you want, isn’t it? Believe me, it is what I want as well. Don’t worry so. There is no need for anyone else to know your secrets. Give them to me._

The dragon from his dreams appeared, flipped him over onto his back, and with one iron claw opened up his belly. Tigôn cried out, then broke down weeping.

**********

Amandil sat at a table in the Regent’s dining hall, drinking hot black tea, and going over a long list of supplies he needed to lay in for the voyage home. He had a busy six days ahead of him mustering an entire legion back into the fleet of ships and no time to worry about the disquieting murders in the night.

Hearing someone call him, he looked up and saw the tall, gaunt figure of Lord Azgarad coming towards him. The Steward’s brow was furrowed, and the corners of his mouth drawn down, making his long face even longer. He looked dressed for slipping unobtrusively through city streets, wearing a cape over breeches and an embroidered grey tunic. Amandil offered a chair next to him.

Azgarad sat down and leaned towards him. “Do you have a few moments to talk?”

“Yes, only just. I have to go out soon to the markets and then there are ships to inspect. What do you need?”

“Have you heard the news?”

“About the murders? Yes. That kind of news travels quickly. Do you know who did it?”

“Not yet, although the King has two suspects – Rabêlozar is sitting in his own prison awaiting trial, and the King has sent men after his zirâmîki.”

“The whole thing is bizarre. Two murders in one night? I can’t remember such an occurrence before. I can comprehend Rabêlozar’s motive for killing his exchequer. He has every reason to cover up malfeasance. But a slave killing a lord?” Amandil shook his head. “Not that Dulginzin didn’t need some killing. I saw what happened at the banquet last night.”

“Well, I might agree with you there,” Azgarad said, knitting his thick dark brows. “It appears that while we were encamped, Dulginzin attacked the boy, which might explain why Sûla did it. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” His eyes shifted around the room. There was only one servant standing by the door. “You there,” he called. “Bring me a cup of hot cider and a plate of fresh biscuits.”

The man bowed and left quickly.

“There, now we have a few moments, so I’ll be brief,” Azgarad said. “Did you know that Annatar spent last night with the King?”

Amandil arched an eyebrow. “Did he? Well, are you surprised?”

“I thought Ar-Pharazôn had more sense than that,” Azgarad growled. “And I’m afraid of the consequences of having a wizard so close to the King’s . . . ear.”

Amandil snorted. “I’ve been unhappy all along about taking him prisoner. But Annatar has been surprisingly docile so far and he did help us in the battle against his former allies. He is a curious creature.”

“Do you believe for a moment that he has had a sudden change of heart and now is working for our best interests and not his?” Azgarad said.

“No, of course not. But what do you want me to do about it? I have already tried to warn the King in the strongest terms I could safely use.  He chooses not to listen. We both know how headstrong Ar-Pharazôn can be.”

“Indeed we do, but he must be made to see reason. I want the Zigûr out of the King’s bed and removed as far from him as possible. He must travel to Númenor in a separate ship. Your ship is the best choice.”

Amandil briefly replayed his daydream of the ‘accident,’ in which Annatar slipped and fell overboard one stormy night. Prudence kept him from sharing the thought. “And what argument do you suggest I offer the King?”

Azgarad fingered the beard around his lips. “We have six days to catch Annatar at whatever game he’s playing and then make our case to the King. Didn’t you have a spy working on it?”

Amandil nodded. “However, he seems to have dried up for some reason. But I’ll see what I can do. If nothing else, we can try to convince Ar-Pharazôn in the names of Prudence and Caution.”

Azgarad laughed. “Those are the King’s by-words for certain, aren’t they?” He looked up as the servant appeared with a covered dish and a steaming mug. “Ah, I was just beginning to wonder where you were.”    

            
“Pardon, Lord Azgarad,” the young man said. “I had to wait for them biscuits to come out the oven.”

“Well, then, I’m off. I must locate about twenty barrels of tar this morning,” Amandil said with a sigh. He folded up his list and drained the last of his now-cold tea.

“Better than what my day entails,”Azgarad said with a wry smile. “Pity me. I must visit the slave pens and arrange to send the Haradren captives to the north and then I’ve a night of record-searching to try to find the King’s missing revenue. Happy hunting, Aphanuzîr. I’ll catch up with you tonight.” He nodded curtly at Amandil as he drizzled honey on his biscuit.

Amandil rose, inclined his head, and then headed for the stable to get his horse. All the business of preparing to go home had driven concern about the Zigûr from his thoughts. Now the Steward’s words had stirred his fears again. Azgarad was right. It was time to blunt the sting in the sorcerer’s tail.

  
**********  
Notes:  
Thanks so much to Russandol for beta reading, discussions about plot and motivation, and moral support.  And continued thanks to Malinornë for beta reading and helping with a variety of language questions.   
abarîm - an elfscribe invented Adûnaic word for gold pieces, like a sovereign. Abara would be one gold piece.  The name is related to canon Adûnaic bâr - lord  
Magân -  means wright in Adûnaic  
Azûlada Batan – eastern road in Adûnaic  
Lorcastra - (Lorcastrîn) - a sect of the Black Serpent cult that practice black magic.  An elfscribe invented Adûnaic name from elfscribe canon (Ossë’s Gift)  
miyâ (plural: miyâr)– a unit of measure equivalent to grams.  Malinornë invented Adûnaic but derived from a canon root meaning 'small.'   
   

-tbc-


	22. The Scrying Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annatar confronts his internal adversary while Tigôn goes to the Umbarian sorcerer Magân’s shop to buy the ingredients for Annatar’s elixirs, and then desperately tries to find Sûla.

Tigôn shoved his way through the crowds at the busy Umbarian market. Under his cloak, he carried a satchel held close to his body to disguise the telltale chinking of gold. Even though accompanied by Narûkh, who wore the distinctive red cloak and armor of the King’s personal guard, Tigôn didn’t want to tempt fate and have the money stolen. Both the King and Annatar had made it clear how important this errand was.        
  
The town was rife with fellow Númenóreans, boisterous with joy at the chance to spend their pay and with the prospect of going home. They mobbed the shops and street vendors looking for souvenirs, filled the taverns with drunken song, and staggered out of brothels with smiling zirâmîthin and the occasional zirâmîkin hanging on their arms. Tigôn shook his head, hoping that it didn’t get out of hand, although the Umbarians seemed quite happy to have the coin.   
  
But Tigôn was not part of the joyous multitude.  He felt muzzy-headed and disturbed, as if he’d been dreaming very strange dreams that he couldn’t quite remember.  By Ossë, there was something, . . . the sorcerer had done something, but cursed if he could remember what. A gap existed in his memory between Annatar making him recite back the instructions and finding himself bowing before him, holding the list in his hand.  The last thing he clearly recalled before the blankness was Annatar saying, _I’m your best ally just now.  I have ways to discover the truth.  If Sûla is innocent, and I suspect he is as that is what my senses are telling me, the King shall know it._ That gave Tigôn cause for hope. He was determined to get the ingredients for the elixir as quickly as he could to help the sorcerer’s conjuring.        
  
Tigôn kept glancing around, half hoping to catch a glimpse of Sûla, although he knew that it would be much too dangerous for the zirâmîki to be walking about. What would he say to Sûla if he did see him?  _Run Sûla!  Hide!  Go far away where they can’t hurt you! I’m gutted that I’ll never see you again. I want you, Sûla.  I can’t help myself.  I want you._   
                      
By the gods, what would his father have to say if he could see him now?  Tigôn was in danger of ruining his whole life, his position at court, everything.  For what?  For a vain peacock of a zirâmîki, who had advanced himself by, well, by his skill at doing all the things they’d done last night.  He could still feel the satiated languor of taking Sûla and the tenderness at his core of his own initiation.   As good as all that had been, he was a fool for having given into his feelings and allowing himself to get into this situation. And yet, he was in it up to his neck now.    
Then there was Annatar.  Had he said anything to the sorcerer that he should not have? As the King’s messenger, Tigôn was privy to a number of secrets. Not to mention his role as Lord Elendil’s informer, which was potentially treasonous, even though he’d not revealed anything significant to Elendil.  Sûla had been too guarded at first and then, well, they hadn’t talked about anything of importance to the realm.   
  
Tigôn was in danger of failing at everything, including his promise to Elendil.  He should have heeded his father’s advice and kept well away from court intrigue!   
    
And so he was back to wondering about that strange blank time in the Zigûr’s chambers not an hour earlier.  He knew he’d been unwise to allow the Zigûr to come so close, but really, could he have stopped him?  Tigôn took a deep breath. Well, best to put all that from his thoughts and pay heed to the task at hand.   
  
Narûkh touched his arm. “Look, there’s the crier.  He must be about to make the King’s decree.”               
The crier was a stout red-bearded man wearing a striped robe and a leather eyepatch. A young man helped him up onto a platform situated in the middle of the market.  Carrying a scroll in one hand, the crier raised his arms on high, turning slowly in a circle.  People in the crowd around Tigôn called for silence, with much shushing and yelling until finally some semblance of quiet was achieved. When the crier spoke, Tigôn could see why he had the position.  His voice was stentorian, deep and carrying.   
  
“Attend and gather round, Citizens of Umbar. Hear the words of our Sovereign Lord, the High King of Númenor. He decrees that the slave from Brunî, one Sûla by name, is wanted  on suspicion of murder.  The slave is a youth, known to be surpassing fair of face, with dark hair and tawny eyes.  There is a reward of ten abarîm for his capture – alive and unharmed.  Anyone found harboring him will be subject to the full displeasure of the King. So says Ar-Pharazôn, Lord of Númenor and Great King of Men.”   
  
When the crier finished, there came a buzz of conversation all about. Tigôn became caught up in a great press of people who crowded around a nearby wall where one of the King’s guard tacked the decree.     
  
“Ten abarîm! Why I’d sell my mother for that!” said a man wearing a leather cap. Laughter followed.   
  
“A slave wanted for murder?  Why do they want him alive?  Why don’t they just send the guards out to kill him?” said a large, dour-faced woman.   
  
“Maybe he knows something.  If we caught him, maybe we could wring the secret from him first?” said one of the vendors, a fishmonger in a white apron.   
  
“Well, I’m off on a slave hunt.  I could use the coin. Did anyone see a pretty youth around here?” Jokingly, the speaker grabbed another fat man by his jowly neck.  “Let’s see if they’ll take you!”   
  
“Certainly not me! My face would make the Great King piss his silk breeches,” said the fat man to more laughter.  
  
“They should look in the brothels, plenty of boy arse there!  I hear the King is partial to it,” said the fishmonger.     
  
“Sounds like there’s to be a hanging and we’ll get to see his pretty face all black with his tongue popping out!” suggested a lanky youth with enthusiasm.  
  
And there was more of the same. Tigôn felt sick.  
  
“Come, Narûkh, let’s push through this,” he said. “We need to carry on.”   
  
Narûkh went ahead, clearing a path through the idlers.   
  
When they reached the eastern edge of the Great Market, Tigôn saw dozens of Númenórean soldiers standing around a long line of Haradren captives yoked together by ropes and chains attached to collars about their necks.  The captives were sitting on the ground. As Tigôn approached, he heard groaning and lamenting and noticed some of them were bandaged with strips of linen, and here and there the red and black of seared flesh was visible. Behind the prisoners stood a long white tent.  The door flaps were tied back and brown-robed healers were moving back and forth. From within, Tigôn heard the occasional pained howl. Outside the tent, dead bodies were stacked on several wains, like cordwood.  
  
With a start, Tigôn realized this must be the appalling result of Annatar’s catapults.  He remembered how beautiful the missiles had seemed as they arched through the velvet blackness of the sky, looking like stars with long, fiery tails. It sent a chill up his spine to realize that such splendor had wrought this misery.     
  
He approached one of the soldiers, a man he recognized from Lord Azgarad’s household.  “Hello Huznazîn. Where are you sending them?”  
  
“To work the gold mines in the White Mountains,” Huznazîn said.  “Hard labor. They won’t last long, I’m afraid.”  He prodded one of the prisoners with the end of his wooden baton, forcing him to keep the chain taut between him and the next captive.  
  
Tigôn felt the weight dragging at his shoulder.  He’d never really thought about where the King’s gold came from. The wealth of Númenor.  As he strode past the row of prisoners with Narûkh at his back, Tigôn noticed a large man sitting with his legs folded. When he turned and looked up, Tigôn recognized that face with its elaborate blue tattoo and the gold ring through the nose.   
  
“Korizar!” Tigôn said in surprise.    
  
“Oh, so you remember me, eh whelp?” Korizar sneered. Slowly, he rose, large and menacing.  “I should have slit your throat when I had the chance.”      
  
“I was an envoy to Aksan. If you’d harmed me, you’d have been cursed with dishonor,” Tigôn said.   
  
“Dishonor! It’s the Númenórean King who has no honor,” Korizar said.  “Look what he did to us!”  He waved a large arm at his cohorts. Then, more quickly than his bulk suggested, amidst a sharp jangle of chains, he leapt at Tigôn. But just as his hands closed about Tigôn’s throat, they snapped apart as if he’d grabbed a hot coal.    
  
Startled, Tigôn jerked away, staggering back several steps.  What in Ennor had just happened?  
  
Narûkh yanked the Haradren captive’s chain, so that he fell forward.  Then, Narûkh slammed his booted foot on Korizar’s back, forcing him to the ground.  
  
The Haradren choked and then raised his head to glare at Tigôn.  “Curse you!  Protected by black spells. What are you to the Zigûr? His butt-boy?”  
  
Huh, Tigôn thought, Annatar must have done as he’d said and placed a magic shield around him, just as before when he visited the Haradren camp.  It gave Tigôn a sense of power. “I will ignore your slander,” he said, glaring at Korizar. “You should say a prayer to your god Zizzûn for preserving your life and surviving the battle unscathed. I came to your camp in good faith under the messenger’s protection, and you were the one who twice sought to kill me.”  He thought a moment. “Where is Aksan?”  
                      
“He escaped.  So, soon you Númenórean pigshite will feel his wrath.” Korizar spat at Tigôn’s feet.  
  
Narûkh pulled his sword, cursing, as Huznazîn and several other guards ran up.  One of them struck Korizar’s head with a baton, making a sharp crack.  Korizar’s chains jingled as he raised his hands against another blow.  
  
“Don’t move or you’ll be taking a quick trip to the Beyond,” Huznazîn snarled.  
  
Korizar leered horribly at Tigôn and grabbed his own crotch.  “Next time our paths cross, messenger boy, I’ll be taking your vakis to wear as a pouch.”    
  
“Then let’s hope there is no next time,” Tigôn said and walked off as quickly as he could, his sympathy for the plight of the Haradren warriors diminished.  
  
“Haradren filth,” Narûkh said in disgust. “Did he hurt you?”  
   
“No,” Tigôn replied.  
  
Narûkh looked at him suspiciously. “What in Angband just happened?  I thought he’d break your neck before I could get to him. Why did he let go of you so quickly?”  
  
“How in Morgoth’s dross should I know?” Tigôn replied angrily, still somewhat shaken. “Are you my guard or not? You should have moved faster.”  He put a hand to his throat and coughed.  
  
********  
The door finally shut on the last of the servants summoned to set up the equipment that Mairon needed to brew his potions.  Still favoring his foot, he moved about the room inspecting the two large copper kettles of water suspended from rods in the fireplace, yes good, and laying out the measuring spoons, ceramic bowls, knives, mortar and pestle, scales, long-handled stirring spoons and other equipment just so.  It was crude, very crude.  He wished he were back in his fully stocked workshop in Barad-dûr, but it could not be helped.  He must make do.   
  
Actually, he had to admit he was enjoying the challenge.  This was what he liked, working on technical problems that didn’t involve having his arse reamed out by a randy but inept king. He felt more content than he had since this little adventure had started.  Things were going his way, leading inexorably to control of Númenor and from there to all of Ennor, and finally there would be order and peace.   
  
He began humming to himself and then abruptly stopped.  Strange.  That wasn’t the tune he had been thinking of.  He began singing it – a stirring marching song favored by his beastly uruks, accompanied by a vigorous pumping arm motion.  “We crush our foes, hammer with blows. Blood is so appealing when it’s congealing. Hey, hey, hurrah and do it again!”   
  
Again, he realized that another kind of tune altogether was passing his lips, a painfully bittersweet ode to a dead lover – in Sindarin no less!  Something that only those infernal tragedy-loving elves would compose. “His hair was as bright as mallorn blossoms in spring; now his fae has fled like a bird on the wing.” No!  It must be that cursed son of Celebrimbor making an appearance!   
  
Mairon glanced at his hands and noticed a strange double ghost image. Slowly, it increased, solidified, and then peeled free like a snake shedding its skin. Oh, this was not good!  He tried speaking the transmogrification spell, but his tongue seemed to cleave itself on that dreadful tune. Too late!  
  
The ghost took several steps away, grabbed the back of a chair, and bent over, inhaling deeply. “Ah, I can see you now, Sauron the Betrayer,” the elf said. “How deliciously ironic this is, don’t you think?”   
  
“How did you get out?” Mairon snarled.  
  
“A very good question, O Great Necromancer.  Don’t _you_ know?  You’re the one who stole my flesh in the first place. Surely you are the one in control here, as you are in all things.”  The elf smiled, a bitter flash of white teeth.  
  
A sudden gust of fury overcame Mairon. He was _always_ in control! Always! He tried to pick up a knife and his hand passed through it.  He swiped the table, through the beakers and measuring cups.  Nothing moved, not a thing.  He had no more substance than the air!   The elf had taken his body!   Panic engulfed him.   He flung himself about the room, trying to knock over chairs, or pull down the bed curtains.  Then he blew repeatedly at one of the lamps to make the flame flicker.  Nothing!     
  
Livid, he turned into a plume of fire, but could burn nothing.  He shot straight up through the chimney and enlarged himself until he blotted out the sun like a great cloud. But he seemed unable to vent his wrath on anything but a flock of crows that took off startled from the palace gates.    
  
With a shriek, he flew into the ocean, plunging down into it with a great steaming hiss, like thrusting a white-hot brand into a cooling tank.  He swam into the depths, until finally his anger cooled to dense iron and he regained control of himself.  _Steady now_ , he said to himself as he plummeted toward the bottom. _If magic is no use against the usurper, you must fight another way._   
                                      
He made himself light and rose buoyantly through the swift current past great schools of fishes, emerging like a dragonfly from the endlessly moving surface of grey water. Sighting the palace sprawled on the hilltop at the head of the harbor, he shot up in the air and drifted back until he was looking over the red tiled roofs and many chimneys of the palace.  Spreading out his senses, he allowed himself to feel for that other essence, that other part of him. Ah, got it!  He selected a chimney, and sank down through the grimy, blackened bricks enveloped by the pungent smell of wood smoke, finally flowing out past the burning coals of his fire.    
  
The elf was still there, waiting for him.     
  
“Are you quite done with your little tantrum, Sauron,” the elf chuckled. “You should take a calming draught or you’re like to bust something. I daresay, you thought you destroyed my fae when you gave me that potion, but you did not.  I’m still here, watching you out of a corner of your soul.  Just remember that, whenever you have the illusion that you are in charge, playing your little power games, I’m there, inside you – watching everything.”    
  
“If you’re so desperate to escape, why are you still here?” Mairon asked.    
  
The elf walked over to the door, grabbed the handle, and attempted to open it.  The door rattled, but appeared locked. He turned, spreading his arms against the bronze panels of the room, meant to contain sorcery.  “Our fae appear to be wedded as long as my body lasts.  I cannot escape you, much as I desire it. And I can’t tell you how abhorrent this is – to be merged rhaw and fae with my greatest enemy.”   His eyes brimmed with tears.  He rocked, back and forth, once, twice, thrice; his eyes appeared to be looking at something far in the distance.    
  
The elf turned a cold gaze back upon Mairon. “Surprisingly, I discover that occasionally my thoughts are my own and can leak out into yours.  Thus do I have my revenge.” He fingered the flower made of hair that Mairon had pinned to the robe.  “You have no idea why you put this here, do you Sauron?  You don’t know its meaning.”  
  
Mairon’s misty shape reformed into the elf’s likeness.  Slowly, he approached, stalking his prey. “Yes, I had wondered about that. Does it have a meaning, Fingaer?”  
  
“Ha,” the elf said.  “I won’t tell you.”  
  
“I doubt it’s anything of importance,” Mairon said.  “Clearly made from your hair.  Something you manufactured while in my prison.  To remind you of someone?  Your beloved, perhaps?”  
  
The elf’s eyes, grey as mist, widened into madness. His hands curved into claws. “Yes, you have guessed it. It was in honor of my beloved, whom you destroyed, along with everything dear to me, my father and mother, my beautiful city, my life. Everything.  I curse you to the blackest pit beyond the Door of Night where I hope you have naught for company but your odious Master!”  
  
Mairon came closer and the elf shrank from him, sliding along the wall to the great tapestry depicting Glaurung.   
  
“Your beloved,” Mairon said. “Let me see if I can remember him.” He sifted back through memories long forgotten. “Ah yes. As I recall, a relationship Celebrimbor did not condone. I endured many a diatribe about it.  Your father wanted you to take a wife, produce heirs, not consort with some flighty male artist. A Vanya, wasn’t he?  So beautiful. Inspiring great lust among men and women alike. They all wanted him.  I wanted him myself.”  
  
The elf grimaced, showing his teeth. “Be careful,” he hissed. “You may recapture my body with this new concoction you’re planning to brew, but I swear if you do that, I will tear you from the inside out.”   
  
“You shall only succeed in killing yourself, elf,” Mairon said.  “I will merely seek another form.”  
  
“I doubt you’ll enjoy the pain, Annatar,” Fingaer said. “And I have no compunction against destroying my body, when I have long dreamed of death in your black dungeon. Perhaps I’ll bash both our heads in one night and be free of this horrific prison you’ve constructed for me. I have nothing to live for, except revenge.”    
  
“Is that so?” Mairon said, coming yet closer so that he could see the elf’s chest heaving like a frightened deer.  “My dear Fingaer, you may hate me for many reasons but killing your lover should not be among them.”  
  
“If your thralls did it while you were destroying Ost-in-Edhil, ‘tis one and the same,” Fingaer retorted.  
  
Mairon smiled to himself. “But I did not kill him.  Last I knew, he was alive.”  
  
“Alive?” Fingaer said suspiciously. “Not possible. I saw him lying in a pool of blood!”  
  
“Did you?  I remember riding along the line of captured elves that my orcs rounded up to sell to the Easterlings.  He was among them, wearing a white bandage on his head.  I imagine he fetched a great price.”  
  
It was almost pitiful watching the hope kindle in the elf’s eyes.  And at that moment, when Fingaer was at his weakest, Mairon pounced.     
  
They struggled this way and that, grappling with each other – smacking into furniture, upending utensils and bowls that landed with ringing clatters and resounding crashes. Mairon spoke the merging incantation and finally it seemed to have some effect.  He began to sink back into the elf’s body, so that soon it was like struggling in a barrel of tar.   
  
In desperation, Fingaer hit him in the throat with his elbow causing a bright flare of pain. They both cried out. Mairon struck the elf in the eye and then the ribs, which hurt, but he was sinking further and further within the elf’s body, until with a sudden snap they were one again.    
  
“No, you don’t,” he heard the elf say in his inner ear. “I promise you Sauron, I’m not vanquished yet.”    
  
“You miserable rat!” Mairon declared, as he grabbed his own throat and began choking himself, while at the same time his head was banging against the bronze wall.   
“What in Manwë’s thunder are you doing?” a voice cried.  
  
Mairon looked up. The door was open and two guards stood there open-mouthed. They surveyed the room, looked at each other, then back at Mairon.     
  
Mairon slowly straightened up, for once at a complete loss for words. Slowly, he unwrapped his fingers from his throat. “Um,” he said.  He wiped a wet trickle from his lip and looked at it.  Blood.  Realizing how incredibly bizarre it must have appeared, watching him beat himself to a bloody pulp, he began to giggle. Uncontrollably.   
  
“It was ghosts,” he rasped past his bruised vocal chords. “Manifestations of incorporeal spirits, trapped by the spells in the walls here. I’ve managed to, er, vanquish them, but, heh, heh, as you can see, it was a struggle. You must summon someone to clean up this mess.”  
  
Deep inside himself, he heard laughter. “Shut up,” he snarled.  The guards looked at him again as if he had completely lost his mind.  
  
“No, not _you_ , idiots,” Mairon raged. “Go! Get out!”       
  
***********  
                      
“I think we’ve overshot it somehow,” Tigôn said.  He squinted up at the signboards.  “We’re in the weavers’ quarter.” The sun had risen another handspan from the horizon and a feeling of urgency was coming over him.  He could swear he heard a whisper tickling his inner ear.  _Hurry!_

“The afternoon grows warm. More than it’s been the last month,” Narûkh said, wiping his reddened brow with his cape. “Let’s see, that last ‘un said go past the White Cony Pharmacopeia and turn left.”     
      
“Maybe we should have gone down that alley instead of the next street over,” Tigôn replied.  He turned and ran smack into a woman wearing a black and red striped robe and a black cowl.  The covered basket she was carrying over one arm tilted and some finely woven scarves slithered out, landing on the dusty road.    
  
She glared at him. “Watch, where you’re going, mîki. These will be ruined.” She bent to scoop up the scarves, slapping off dirt on her thigh before putting them back.  
  
“My pardon, m’lady,” Tigôn said, bending down to help.   
  
“Don’t touch ‘em,” she said.    
  
Tigôn noticed that although her face was past its prime, with weather-beaten skin and dark circles under the eyes, she must have once been handsome.  Her cheekbones were prominent and her nose and chin well-formed.  She looked vaguely familiar somehow.   
  
She glanced at Narûkh and then back at Tigôn. “What are you doing hereabouts?” she asked sharply.   
  
“We’re lost,” Tigôn said. “Can you direct me to a herbalist shop called The Eastern Road?”   
  
Her eyes narrowed. “Unusual request for a Númenórean.”  
  
“I have a friend who has . . .difficulty sleeping,” Tigôn replied.  
  
“Sleeping, is it?” she snorted. “Well, you are a little out of your way. Back down the road here and take your next right and then another right and you’ll see it. You’ll know when you get there.”  She gave them both a searching look, then walked away, heading up the main road towards the market.    
  
“Very well, let’s try it,” Narûkh sighed.    
   
**********  
  
When Tigôn saw the black serpent signboard tapping gently in the breeze against the mud wall of the shop, he was instantly filled with misgivings.  He had the distinct sensation that he was being watched.   
  
Apparently Narûkh felt it too. Glancing back over his shoulder, he said, “Are you sure this is the place, Tigôn?  I don’t like the looks of it. I’ve heard tales of the Lorcastra.”   
  
Tigôn swallowed.  “Very sure.  Better stay out here while I buy the goods. The Zigûr said no one else may see them.”  
  
Narûkh humphed.  “I’ll be a dog’s hind end if this sorcerer’s potion makes the King any younger. Likely as not it’s just a trick.”  
  
“Likely as not,” Tigôn said. “But I’m just the errand boy. Wait for me.  I’ll yell if I need you.”  
  
Tigôn tried the knob and it turned.  He opened the door and peered into the darkened interior, then let himself in.  It looked like any herb shop he’d seen, with shelves of ceramic pots and glass jars of various sizes and shapes filled with leaves or colored powders. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling rafters, permeating the room with a variety of spicy odors.  Another shelf contained racks of little pigeon holes full of rolled sheets of parchment.  There were beakers aplenty and a large wooden counter, stacked with weights, over which balanced a hanging scale. On the top shelves, he noticed glass urns containing what appeared to be pickled organs, a beef tongue, eyes, and then he gasped, seeing one crammed with human fingers.  He felt his heart beating.       
  
“Hello? Hello?  Anyone here?” he called as he came further into the shop.    
  
The curtain at the back parted and a girl wearing a red scarf over long black braids, and a metal ring in one nostril, peeked out. “Father,” she called.  “He’s here.  The boy with the golden hair.”  
  
Tigôn barely had time to be surprised that she seemed to expect him, before a great mountain of a man emerged, ducking his head through the curtain.  His iron-grey hair was braided into dozens of plaits tied at the ends with long strips of red cloth.   He wore a closely-cropped beard and a long black robe embroidered with white serpents. His face was seamed like the inside of a leather jacket. He stood looking at Tigôn long enough for the messenger to fidget.    
  
“I gather you expected me?” Tigôn finally said.  
  
“I saw you in my soup,” the man said.  “Floating with a bit of gristle.”  
  
“Interesting dinner,” Tigôn replied.  He cleared his throat. “I’ve come on an errand from the High King of Númenor.”      
  
“And why should that impress me?” the man replied. “What has the High King done for me or my family lately, except throw firebolts at my kin?”  
  
“Um, I can’t answer that,” Tigôn said, his discomfort increasing. “Are you the shop-owner, Magân?”  
  
“I am,” the man said.     
  
“Then, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Tigôn inclined his head. “Your reputation as a most knowledgeable apothecary precedes you.”  
  
“Flattery will avail you not,” Magân growled. “The Sea-King has betrayed us by capturing the Zigûr and making war on us.  It is a deep betrayal. We will not forget it.” He cocked his head. “Are you one of the Zigûr’s servants?”  
  
In answer, Tigôn pulled his eyelid closed with one finger.  
  
Magân’s expression grew hard. He leaned his bulk over the counter and passed a huge hand back and forth in front of Tigôn’s face, which Tigôn felt as a tickle of heat. It was not unlike the sensation of standing near the Zigûr, although far less intense. Magân sniffed noisily. “You reek of black magic,” he said. “Why?”  
  
“I cannot answer that either,” Tigôn replied.  
  
“Poor response, mîki. I’m still deciding . . .”  
                                              
There was a pause. “Deciding what?” Tigôn asked.  
  
“Whether or not to kill you,” Magân said and chuckled, as if the idea pleased him. Power gathered about him like a storm and Tigôn had a moment of deep misgiving.  Shield or no, this might not be a healthy place to be.   
              
Then, Magân made a loud ‘huuuuh’ sound, which Tigôn experienced as an actual shove on his chest, making him stagger backward. At the same moment, he was startled by a shimmer crackling the air all around him, like tapping a layer of thin ice over a pond.  
  
Magân’s eyes widened. “A shield,” he growled. “Then, you are not as sweet as you might appear.”   
  
Ah, Tigôn thought, with a surge of confidence.  His armor worked even against the likes of a Lorcastrîn.  Perhaps having the sorcerer at his back was not such a bad thing.  However, Magân still showed no inclination to help him.  Tigôn realized that, just as in the Haradren camp, he was being tested. He stared back into the man’s onyx eyes, and said, “I come under the protection of the Zigûr himself.  I rather think he’d take exception if you killed his runner . . . and it would profit you nothing. However, you stand to do well if you can fill his order.”  Reaching under his cloak, he pulled the satchel off his shoulder and set it chinking on the table.  He unhooked the clasp, plunged his hand down into it, pulled out a handful of the gold abarîm, and let them fall back with a jingle. “Quite well.”   
  
At that, Magân grinned, a positively feral expression, showing teeth with black gums. “Tell me what you want, Númenórean, and I’ll decide,” he said. “No one comes with gold to the Black Serpent for trivial matters. Who must I kill?”  
  
Tigôn withdrew the Zigûr’s list with its strange script, unfolded the pages, and slammed them on the counter.  “Nothing like that. Listen, I am in haste.  Do you wish to help or not?  If not, I will report to the Zigûr that you were uncooperative, and I assure you, he will be most displeased.”  
  
Magân picked up the list and examined it. Abruptly, his demeanor changed and he became deferential.  “Ah, you were not lying.  This is from Himself.  Tell His Honor that I am pleased to do his bidding, and may he remember Magân as a friend in future. Let me see if I have this . . . rather specialized stock.  Azûlizrê,” he called.   
  
The girl was looking at Tigôn with a bemused smile, her hands on her hips.  She straightened up.  “Yes, Father?”   
  
“Get our _client_ a chair and some orzini.  This will take some time.”  
  
“No orzini, if you please,” Tigôn said, relieved. “I drank rather too much of it recently. But I’d be obliged if you could get me a cup of watered wine.”  He smiled at her.  “One part to two.”  
  
Azûlizrê took him in with one sweeping flick of her eyes. “My pleasure, Númenórean.”  
  
“Quit flirting, girl, and get to work,” Magân growled. He eyed the list. “Now then, bloodroot.”  He turned his back, ponderously climbed on a stool, reached to an upper shelf and pulled out a jar. 

  
Tigôn slowly let out a breath and leaned against the counter. “Fresh, not dried,” he said.    
  
“Oh, picky, picky,” Magân grunted.  He replaced the ceramic jar and pulled another.    
  
*************  
  
“That is all of it, then,” Magân said, consulting the Zigûr’s notes one last time, and then delicately probing in a jar with a pair of tweezers to snag a spider’s egg sack, which he set on the counter before Tigôn.  Magân frowned. “This is a very strange combination.  I’d almost guess there were two different potions to be brewed from this.”  
  
“I think it’s just the one,” Tigôn said as he looked over the collection of colorful powders in little vials, along with a pile of gnarled roots and disgusting animal bits. He was wondering if morthul, bats’ wings, powdered drake horn, and a child’s finger, among other things whose origin he didn’t want to know, could possibly make a brew that would renew youth.  More likely, it would merely make someone gag his way to an early grave. But then again the magical shield really did work. He could vouch for that. And the Zigûr was said to be the most powerful sorcerer in all Ennor. So, maybe he could do what he said.  Perpetual youth.  Tigôn had to wonder if this was a good idea.  But at this point, he didn’t care.  Magân had been cooperative but slow and Tigôn found himself increasingly anxious. All he could think about was what might be happening to Sûla.    
  
“How much?” Tigôn asked.  
  
Magân stroked his chin while eyeing Tigôn’s satchel on the counter.  “I’ll make a special deal for you.  Thirty abarîm.”  
  
“Thirty!”  That was enough to buy a whole ship and crew. “Fifteen,” Tigôn said.   
  
“These items are very difficult and costly to obtain. Twenty.” Magân narrowed his eyes.  “No less.”  
  
“Very well.” Tigôn pulled out a fat handful of gold coins and began counting them on the counter in front of Magân, reflecting that he’d never held so much money before.  
  
Looking up, he noticed the girl watching him from behind the curtain. He was reminded of what she’d said when he first entered. _He’s here, the boy with the golden hair._    
  
“You knew I was coming, didn’t you?” Tigôn asked Magân. “How?”  
  
“I told you,” the Lorcastrîn grunted as he began wrapping up the loose items in brown paper.   
  
“You saw me in your soup,” Tigôn said flatly.  
  
Magân chuckled.  “Is there something you wish to see in my soup?”  
  
Tigôn straightened. Magân wasn’t joking. “Yes.”     
  
Magân squinted one eye at him. “Scrying will be extra.”  
                                          
Tigôn dug in the satchel.  He still had a handful of abarîm left.  How was the King to know it had not cost an extra piece?  With a click, he set another coin on the counter.  “Show me,” he said.  
  
“Azûlizrê, finish this up,” Magân called.  “You, boy, follow me.”  
  
Tigôn put the satchel over his shoulder and followed Magân into a large kitchen with a vast fireplace, looking just like any other Tigôn had seen, except for a kettle of bubbling black liquid hanging from a spit over hot coals.    
  
“Sit,” Magân commanded, indicating a table and chairs.  He went to the sideboard and picked up a huge copper bowl, which he set in front of Tigôn.  Then he dipped up some of the liquid from the kettle and poured it into the bowl.  The smell was sharp and one whiff went straight to Tigôn’s head, scouring out his nasal passages.    
  
“Wait for it to settle,” Magân said.  “Think about the question you wish to ask.  Make it clear and simple.”  He passed his hands over the fluid and chanted something in Umbarian.    
  
 _Clear and simple,_ Tigôn thought.    
  
“Now then, look,” Magân said.                      
  
Tigôn bent over the bowl and thought, _Where is Sûla?  Show me._  
  
For a long time there was nothing but a single ripple in the black soup.  Tigôn sighed and glanced up at Magân. “Look!” Magân barked.  
  
Tigôn thought he saw something stir, then he gasped as a scene appeared of Umbar’s streets under the hazy winter sky.  The vision kept fading in and out, but it seemed as if he was walking down the street, passing into a yard with chickens scratching about.  Decidedly unhelpful. He saw a shed; then he was looking at a curtain hanging from a low shelf in a junky room lit with splashes of sunlight. _Let me see past it,_ he thought.  The curtain moved aside to reveal a body wrapped in a dark blue cloak and lying across some large wool sacks. Was that Sûla?  Was he . . .? Tigôn had a moment of stomach-clenching anguish before noticing the slow rise and fall of breathing. Alive, then.   
  
The form turned over and there was that exquisite face and sumptuous mouth, half-hidden under a tangled mass of black hair. It was Sûla. There were dirty streaks down his face as if he’d been crying. Tigôn’s heart throbbed.  He wished he could touch him, gather him in his arms.  He had to resist touching the liquid.  The zirâmîki seemed to be restlessly dreaming.  He groaned and struggled; his eyes twitched back and forth under his lids. At least he seemed safe. But where was he?  _Show me,_ he commanded again.  For a time there was a swirling in the liquid. Then, he saw a door with a weaver’s sign over it.  
  
“Can you see this?” he said sharply to Magân.  The man bent over the bowl.    
  
“Yes, I know that place,” Magân said.  “Kathalômi, the weaver.  She lives near here.”  
  
“Can you direct me there?”  
  
“Ask. It will show you,” Magân replied.  
  
Motion in the vision caught Tigôn’s attention and he bent back over the bowl. At first he was confused by shifting streets, a blurred twisting this way and that, as if he were running through them. “I can’t . . .” he began.  Then he saw himself standing undecided at the crossroads where he’d run into the woman in the black and red striped robe. There she was again. Was he seeing the past?  She was walking briskly back in the direction she’d come and now he could see she was leading six armored men wearing the scarlet livery of the King’s guard.  Desperate to see more, he bent closer, his nose nearly touching the liquid, the pungent scent overwhelming. Were they headed toward Magân’s shop?  A terrible feeling came over him as he watched them turn away from the healers’ quarter down the street of the weavers.  Suddenly he knew where they were going.   
  
Abruptly, Tigôn stood and hauled the satchel over one shoulder.  “I’ll be taking my leave now,” he said.  “Thank you for your help.”  
  
“Ah, saw something, did you?” Magân said. “My magic is very powerful. Be sure to tell His Honor . . .”  
  
“Yes, yes,” Tigôn said, sketching a bow. “I’ll give him your fondest regards.” He pushed through the curtain to the outer shop, and hastily filled his bag with all the precious ingredients, while the girl Azûlizrê eyed him. “Forgive my haste, my lady.  Good wine,” he said, draining the last swallow from his cup, plunking it down, and pelting out the door.  
  
When Tigôn fled the shop, Narûkh jumped up from where he’d been seated across the alley. “Well, it’s about fucking time,” the guard declared. “I was just deciding whether or not to try to rescue you.”   
  
Tigôn stopped and looked at him. It would do no good to have another member of the guard coming along who knew the King’s decree and would have to carry it out.  “I’ve an urgent errand to get something Magân didn’t have,” Tigôn said. “Here,” he thrust the satchel into the astonished Narûkh’s arms. “You must take this immediately to the Zigûr, as fast as ever you can.  That Lorcastrîn has put a curse on it and everything will turn to dust if it’s not there within the hour.  That would mean both our heads.”   He looked meaningfully at Narûkh.  
  
“What? Where are you going?” Narûkh said.  
  
“No time. Go, go!” Tigôn cried, waving wildly at him. “I’ll be along shortly.” And he was off running down the street, realizing that most likely this was the most foolish thing he’d ever done; even worse than spending the night with the King’s zirâmîki.  
  
 ***********  
      
Something tickled Sûla’s cheek.  He swiped it away, hoping it wasn’t a spider, and opened his eyes a crack.  It was dark and cold. He felt dirty, itchy, hungry. Underneath him, the wool sacks were lumpy and uncomfortable, nothing like the King’s soft bed. What time was it?  Was it safe to go out?  He shivered and pulled the cloak closer about his shoulders, feeling dreadfully sorry for himself.  It was so unfair.  He sniffed and wiped his nose and the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. All that was over now, he’d better get used to it.  He, who for a shining moment in time had been the flower of the King’s court, the jewel of his Majesty’s eye, and now all of it had come crashing down. An illusion.  He was worthless, good for nothing, just as they always told him.  At least his aunt hadn’t thrown him out.    
  
He felt the dragon, his seed corn to possibilities, on his upper arm through the woolen jacket Tigôn had given him, wondering where he might sell it. His thoughts drifted to when he’d taken the jacket from Tigôn’s bag and looked up to see the messenger holding out his bare arms with a warm, sleepy smile, inviting him back into bed. That gesture meant the world to him. He remembered crawling in with him, kissing his curly hair, snuggling against him, feeling his slim body, his strong, accepting arms about him. He remembered feeling at peace. That would never happen again, never, never. He was doomed to spend his life, wretched and alone. Unloved. He turned on his side and curled up into a ball.  The tears he’d held back came now, in great wracking sobs.      
  
**********  
  
Although panicked, Tigôn was forced to stop, chest heaving.  Had he taken a wrong turn? None of this looked like the streets he’d seen in Magân’s scrying bowl.  He was in the weavers’ quarter, that was for sure.  He saw a shop with a painted sign of a grinning dolphin next to a twill pattern and another made of heavy wool. Neither was like the sign he’d seen in Magân’s scrying bowl.  Tigôn kept envisioning the guards finding Sûla and hacking him up into bits. Could he get there in time to warn him?  And then what would he and Sûla do?  Would they run off together?  He smacked the side of head. This was complete madness.  Well, he was making this up as he went along, surely, he’d think of something. Calm down and think.  He should go back to the crossroads where he met that woman and then follow the images he’d been shown.  He turned and retraced his steps, regretting every lost moment.  
  
***********  
  
Sûla was naked, covered in gold jewelry from head to toe, seated at the King’s feet.  A small living dragon curled around his upper arm, the sensation of slithering scales making his skin crawl. It came around and around, sliding onto his shoulder, its tail encircling his neck, drawing tight, tighter.    
  
Then he was dancing in Ar-Pharazôn’s Great Banquet Hall and everyone was cheering for him, clapping the rhythm with him.  He saw Tigôn standing near the table, watching. Tigôn smiled his shy, lop-sided grin, and Sûla thought, _I’m dancing for you, only for you._   
  
Dulginzin was sitting in the King’s chair.  “Drink the wine, Sûla,” he commanded.    
  
‘No,’ Sûla cried.    
  
‘You’ll do it or I’ll tell them you killed me,’ Dulginzin said.  ‘Who will they believe, you or me?’

Sûla fell on his hands to the floor and found that it was wet. He looked down into a bucket filled with brown, soapy water. A large hand pressed on the back of his head, and suddenly shoved his face down into it, again and again.  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t.  He choked, spluttered, choked.  ‘No, father, please, don’t kill me!  I promise I won’t do it again,’ he shrieked and hated himself for being so weak.    
  
Where had the King gone?  Ar-Pharazôn had promised he’d protect him.  Sûla struggled, flailing away from the bucket, which tipped over and rolled away with a clang.  Snarling and raging, he scrambled up on padded feet and his nails clicked as he ran along the tile and leapt on his tormenter, ripping and tearing great gobbets of flesh from his neck. The bushy black beard tilted up and the head lolled, dripping blood.  
  
He was a great savage wolf with razor teeth. And they were all nothing, compared to his power.  Rising up on his hind legs, waving his paws, he did the dance of the wolves, howling with anger.  The King sat motionless on the throne.  Sûla landed on all fours and snarled.  A spider was busy covering the King in sticky threads, winding them around and around his face, sealing his eyes shut. “Sûla, come and service me,” the King said and the tattered web blew backwards in a breath of air.     
  
In the King’s lap lay a beautiful black cat who looked at Sûla knowingly with half-closed, lazy yellow eyes. Sûla sat at the foot of the throne, looking up at it while the King stroked the beast repeatedly from head to tail.  The cat arched his back under that hand and yawned, showing a blood-red tongue.   
  
“Come pet me, Sûla, my beautiful,” the cat said in a finely fluted voice. “The King is a fool. He doesn’t recognize your value, but I do. Take care of me and I’ll take care of you. That’s how it is. You have no one else now, no one to trust but me.”     
  
The cat dropped from the King’s lap with a thump and strolled over, tail waving. He butted his head against Sûla’s chest, then curled up beside him. As Sûla stroked the beast, a strange numbness came over him.  The cat’s incisors were long and protruded from its lips.    
  
It was so cold.  Cold.  Tramping boots.  He could hear them coming for him.  And there in the great square of the Palace yard, he saw the platform with the gallows swinging gently in a breeze.  The sky was iron-grey and all about on the rooftops waited hundreds of giant black crows with greedy eyes.    
  
Sûla yelled and half sat up, heart pounding.  He could still see them sitting quietly, with their sharp beaks and knowing eyes. A dream, he thought, taking a deep breath.  Just a dream. Although it could well come true.  What time was it?  Where was Kathalômi?   
  
He heard the door of the shed creak open and the room brightened with daylight, enough to illuminate the dust motes streaming in the air in the confined space in which he lay.  The blanket covering his hiding place was suddenly wrenched aside.  Sûla gasped in terror as he looked into the pocked face of one of the King’s guard, a man named Bildûn.    
  
“Got him,” Bildûn called, as he reached in and grabbed Sûla by the arm, painfully yanking him out from under the shelf and onto the debris-laden floor.  Sûla looked up at a bristling row of four swords thrust in his face. “Put your hands on your head,” the guard barked. “You are under arrest by order of the King.  If you fight, it will go ill for you.”    
                                      
“I didn’t do it, Bildûn, I swear by Zizzûn’s dice,” Sûla cried, raising his hands to his head.       
  
“Well then I guess I should just let you go,” Bildûn said.  He laughed and put his hands under Sûla’s arms, dragging him upright.  “You protest your innocence while dressed in Lord Dulginzin’s cloak.  Brazen, isn’t he, mîkin? Come with me.  And don’t try running or anything, or you’ll be gutted before your time.”  
  
Sûla’s legs were not cooperating, felt stiff from lying in hiding. As he rose and tried to walk, they gave out under him and he stumbled.  Bildûn grabbed him again and whispered in his ear.  “Don’t tempt me, mîki. Many’s the night I’ve heard you moaning under the King.  Perhaps you’ll moan just as prettily if I stick you.”   
  
The other guards laughed.  “Not so cocky now, is he?” one of them said. “Umbarian filth.”  
  
Sûla blinked in the bright sunshine of the yard.  There was only one explanation for this. And there she was, his stony-faced aunt, standing by the back door, arms folded.    
  
“You bitch!” Sûla screamed. “You swore by Zizzûn!”   
  
She came up to him and patted his cheek.  “My favorite nephew.  Even Lord Zizzûn knows I had no choice.”  
  
“You did, oh you did,” Sûla cried, livid with anger. “I came to you for help.  You’re worse than my step-father.  At least he never pretended to love me.”    
  
Kathâlomi said, “It was too dangerous to hide you.  The King’s soldiers were crawling all over Umbar.  The decree said anyone harboring you would be executed. I couldn’t risk it. I’m sorry, Sûla.”  
  
“So am I,” Sûla said. “And one day, I swear, you’ll regret this. My whole family is worth nothing but shit. I curse you and the whole lot of them. From this day forward I’ll have none of you!” He spat at her feet.   
  
“Enough with the charming family reunion,” Bildûn said.  “Tie him up.  Madam, your service to the crown has been noted.  You may report to the King’s exchequer to collect your reward.”  He gave her a disgusted look.    
  
“Are you coming to my hanging, Aunt?” Sûla cried.  She turned away, failing to meet his eyes.   
  
One of the guards jerked Sûla’s hands behind his back and tied them ruthlessly.  Bildûn led the way while a guard on each side grasped one of Sûla’s arms and frog marched him through the house.                  
  
As Bildûn opened the door and they poured out onto the street, Sûla was astonished to see Tigôn standing there, gasping for breath, a look of horror on his face. What was he doing here? No, it couldn’t be! “Not you too,” Sûla said, in despair.   
  
Tigôn shook his head vigorously. “No, no, Sûla. . . . it’s not . . . .” He glanced at the guards and pressed his lips shut.   
  
Bildûn said, “What are you doing here, messenger?  I thought the King sent you on an errand?”  
  
“He did,” Tigôn said.  “I happened to be nearby, when I saw you, and I, I followed, wondering where you were going.”  
  
“Well the show is over,” Bildûn growled. “You had better run along to the King.”  
  
“Yes,” Tigôn said. He bit his lip.  
  
“Traitor of the blackest hue,” Sûla hissed.      
  
Tigôn’s face crumpled and he looked like he might cry. His lips moved, saying something. It looked like, _‘I’m sorry, Sûla.’_   He backed away and then fled up the street.    
  
Sûla’s thoughts swirled about in dark confusion. What was Tigôn doing there? It made no sense. Had the messenger been with the guards when his aunt came to betray him?  Had Tigôn confessed what they’d done last night and was trying to redeem himself?  If so, then their lovemaking had meant nothing! If  Tigôn had abandoned him, he was truly alone.   
  
Sorrow and anger burned a silent shriek inside Sûla’s gut.  His vision blurred.  The walk back was anguish. The news fled ahead of them and Umbarians gathered on either side of the street like the black crows in his dream, catcalling and pitching slops. Life had become Sûla’s nightmare. Death might actually be sweet.                
***************  
Thanks as always to Russandol and Malinornë for beta reading, cheerleading and researching.

abarîm - an elfscribe invented Adûnaic word for gold pieces, like a sovereign.  Abara would be one gold piece.  Also generically used to mean money.  The name is related to canon Adûnaic bâr  
 - lord      
Azûlada Batan –  eastern road in Adûnaic   
Azûlizrê – female name meaning eastern beloved, courtesy of Elleth on LC  
Magân – means wright in Adûnaic   
rhaw is the Sindarin term for Quenya hröa meaning body.  Fae(r) is Sindarin fëa meaning spirit. Fae is both singular and plural.   
vakis - invented Haradren meaning genitals  
zirâmîthin - female courtesans  
zirâmîkin - male courtesans  
 


	23. A Crow in Swan's Plumage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tigôn witnesses Annatar’s strange behavior and falls under a spell. Ar-Pharazôn discovers that he hates accounting but he does enjoy eel pie and a pert backside.

With the westering sun glaring in his eyes, Tigôn ran through the streets of Umbar, feeling utterly wretched.  He knew he shouldn’t have fled from Sûla just when his friend could have used the comfort of his company, but he had no idea what else to do.  It was that black look of hatred Sûla had given him, which Tigôn did not deserve.  It hit him so hard that he had nearly broken down right there in front of the guards.   
  
So, like a cowardly dog, he ran away.  Pulling up his hood to hide his face, he fled from the weaver’s quarter through the Umbarian market and up the road that wound around the hill towards the palace. All the while his mind churned. Would Sûla be hanged for this murder?  Was there anything he could do to prevent it?  Should he go to the King and admit that Sûla had been with him most of the night?  But even that wouldn’t be proof that his friend had not killed Lord Dulginzin after he left Tigôn’s room. And most likely going to the King would only get Sûla in worse trouble. No, better to keep quiet and watch what happened. Wasn’t that the first lesson he’d learned in Ar-Pharazôn’s court?  By the gods, he didn’t want to serve the King anymore.  He wanted to go home. The stomach-churning feeling came over him again.      
                              
Finally, gasping for breath, his side aching, he was forced to slow to a walk. He reached the imposing iron gates in the wall that encircled the Regent’s palace where he could see the scarlet cloaks of the guards standing sentry.  That reminded him of the satchel of Magân’s magic ingredients. He should make sure Narûkh had given it to the Zigûr.   
  
He identified himself to the guards and passed through the gates, climbing up the long drive until he reached the huge doors to the palace.   Many colorfully garbed people were passing in and out, artisans, merchants, servants, soldiers. Slipping in among them, he walked through the great entranceway.   
  
Tigôn came to a complete stop, looked at his hands and realized that he was shaking. He didn’t want to visit Annatar again.  He should report back to Ar-Pharazôn for his next assignment or risk being in even more trouble than he was already. He leaned up against a mosaic wall of dolphins leaping in the surf and stared at the flickering lamp that hung from the high ceiling. It reminded him of the strange winged shadow he’d seen ahead of them as he’d accompanied the Zigûr back to his room that morning, which now seemed ages ago.  He had to admit he was frightened of him.   
  
What sort of creature was the sorcerer anyhow? A Maia? A shape-shifter? What hold did he have on the King – heh, aside from the obvious one. Desire was a hold Tigôn had not fully understood – until last night.  He didn’t know whether to think of the wizard as friend or foe.  He wished his father were there to advise him, although he could never admit what he’d done with Sûla.  Once again, the fear of disappointing his family washed over him.  Curse it! He longed to go to Elendil and confess, but then he had failed to serve him and the Faithful as well.  He had failed everyone.  And without meaning to, he had failed Sûla most of all.   
  
Perhaps Annatar could explain further what he meant when he said his senses told him Sûla was innocent. Maybe the sorcerer could read the future and tell Tigôn what to do.  That’s what he must do then, summon his nerve and visit Annatar again.  Magân had given him some instructions to pass along that he had not divulged to Narûkh.  He couldn’t very well keep that information from Annatar, could he?   Yes, it made sense to go to the sorcerer.   
          
Tigôn made his way to Annatar’s rooms on the west wing of the palace, brushing off the servants who stopped him to ask for news.  The palace staff seemed in a dither about what would happen to the Regent, and consequently worried about their own fate. Since the runners were notorious for knowing things first, he was in high demand. “I don’t know,” he kept saying.  “Leave me, I’m on urgent business to the King.”  
                          
When he arrived at the imposing double doors leading to the Zigûr’s quarters, Narûkh was one of the guards in attendance.  “So there you are,” he said to Tigôn.  “Finished your errand, did you?”  
  
“Yes,” Tigôn said.  “Did you give that satchel to the Zigûr?”  
  
“I know my duty,” Narûkh replied.  “I got it here well within the hour. Everything was still there and nothing turned to dust.  You should thank me.”  
  
“Thank you.” Tigôn sketched a bow.  “And now, I must see Lord Annatar.”  
  
“That you may not,” Narûkh said.  “He gave orders not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”  
  
“Surely that doesn’t apply to me,” Tigôn said. “I need to give him some instructions from Magân pertaining to, um, those objects.”  
  
Narûkh hesitated, staring hard at Tigôn with suspicious black eyes and then looking at the other guard.    
  
“Do you want to be responsible for the potion going awry and doing something horrible to the King?” Tigôn asked.  
  
“Eh, why didn’t you say right off why it was important,” Narûkh grumbled.  “Very well.  It’s on your head if he eats you alive.  I promise you, something very strange is at work in there.   We keep hearing odd voices and noises, like animals growling or something.”  He knocked on the door and shouted,  “My Lord Annatar, a visitor.  He says it’s important.”  
  
The wizard’s voice yelled, “Sha! No!”  
  
Tigôn turned the knob and stuck his head in the room.  He was immediately overwhelmed by a variety of pungent smells.  The room was riven with smoke trails and something else. There! Shadows on the walls flared huge, flapping fitfully about.  Tigôn had the feeling that something was screeching just above his ability to hear.  The sorcerer’s darkly robed figure was bent over a table on which were scattered some of the items Tigôn had bought. He seemed blurred, as if Tigôn were looking at him cross-eyed.    
  
Tigôn’s senses prickled with wrongness. He rubbed his eyes, hesitated, then thought of Sûla.  He must be brave for his friend who was fighting for his life.  The messenger slipped into the room, closing the door behind him with a sharp snick.     
  
Annatar straightened into a towering figure and turned his head. His eyes seemed lit by twin fires, like the beacons that warned ships from a rocky shore.  “I told you to stay out,” he snarled.   
  
“Your lordship.” With his heart thudding, Tigôn went down on one knee.  “I brought the items from Magân, as you requested, for your potion.  Please, I have some instructions to give you. . . about those things.  And some news.  They have found Sûla and taken him into custody.”  
  
“Have they?” Annatar raised an eyebrow.  “Hold your tongue,” he snapped. Strangely he spoke in Sindarin.  
  
Tigôn jumped nearly out of his skin, but Annatar did not seem to be directing the remark to him. The Zigûr’s voice had a strange harmonic quality like two flutes playing the same notes.   
  
“My Lord?” Tigôn hesitated.   
  
“What did Magân tell you?” Annatar snarled.    
  
“He said the bloodroot is not as fresh as he’d like.  It’s several months old because supplies are low.   And the bat wings are a different variety than you requested, but this kind also roosts in Khazad-dûm so he thinks it will work.  And the morthul must be ground.  He only had the dried leaves.”   
“Is that all?”  Annatar said.  Then his voice lowered into a sharp whisper. “Oh, so you laugh, thinking I can’t fold you into my rhaw again. What if the ingredients are not perfect? They are more than adequate for the task,” he said in Sindarin.  He reached for a vial sitting on the table.  The hand jerked back suddenly and he grasped it with his left hand wrestling it to the table.  His right hand made a fist and tried to push back, while Annatar bore down on it with all his weight.  It looked as if he were struggling with himself.  Tigôn wanted to laugh.  Finally Annatar’s fist relaxed and his hand opened. Annatar released himself, then picked up the vial and began tapping powder out of it onto a scale.”  
  
“My Lord?” Tigôn began tentatively. He felt a strong animal urge to flee.  This was not the smoothly controlled Annatar he’d seen before.  This was . . . something else.   
  
“What now?” Annatar said.  He recapped the vial as if nothing had happened.  
  
“I had another message from Magân.  He asked if you would remember his service kindly in future.  He gave the King a bargain in price.”  
  
“Magân knows where his bread is buttered,” Annatar grunted. Waving dismissively at Tigôn, he raised his hand to a flower made of his coppery hair, pinned to his collar, stroking it between thumb and forefinger. “Know your place, curse you,” he said.   
  
“What?” Tigôn asked fearfully.  “I did as you asked, Lord Annatar.”  
  
“Not you,” Annatar said.  “Now leave, if you value your sanity.”  
  
“My Lord, about Sûla . . .”  Once again the frightening eyes focused on him.  “You said your gut told you he was innocent.” Tigôn faltered.  “Is, is there a way to prove that?”  
  
Annatar’s sumptuous mouth quirked into the semblance of a smile.  “Have no fear, messenger. There will be a trial and the truth will out, as they say.  All truths. Ones that perhaps you will not bear so well.  _No one_ is truly innocent.”  He laughed and the sound rippled up Tigôn’s spine like a butcher’s knife opening up a pig’s belly.    
  
Slowly, Annatar approached, beautiful and deadly as a serpent, until he was standing over him and Tigôn was looking up into those fierce, fiery eyes. “Love is a weakness, King’s messenger.  Better you learn this lesson now before coming to grief over it.  But it matters not. You will deny your love for him soon enough and in so doing, it will be crushed from your soul. You’ll know what I mean when the time comes.” His long fingers brushed Tigôn’s cheek in a strangely sensual gesture.  They had a duality, a heat that burned like ice.    
  
Tigôn jerked away from that touch. “Are you not a powerful wizard? There must be something you can do.”  
  
“If he can be saved, I shall save him,” Annatar intoned.  “Though neither of you may care for the price. That’s as much as I can promise.  Now, unless you wish to donate your youth to the King’s elixir, begone, and do not trouble me again until the sun rises tomorrow.  Go!”  
  
He suddenly appeared to grow. Shadowed wings enveloped the room, stretching from wall to wall, and his face transformed into that of a great black dragon. The mouth opened, revealing teeth the size of daggers. In terror, Tigôn reached behind himself, fumbling for the knob. He jerked the door open and escaped from the room. The sorcerer’s voice rumbled after him. “Death will come to the next man who opens this door!”    
  
A blast of hot air hit him as Tigôn slammed the door shut.  He leaned against it, breathing heavily.  “Wrath of Manwë!” he gasped.    
  
“I warned you,” Narûkh replied, gripping Tigôn’s shoulder.  “Best to stay out of it, Tigôn.  If I were the King, I wouldn’t get near whatever the Zigûr is brewing in there.  But I’m following orders and keeping my mouth shut.  Best you do the same.”  
  
Tigôn gulped and nodded. He realized that he was starving, exhausted, and disgusted with all this drama. He longed to visit the kitchens and get a loaf of bread and a strong bottle of wine and then sequester himself in his room to get drunk and pass out, preferably until his people were ready to sail back to Númenor.  But it was his fear of failing at his duty that conquered him. And so, against all his instincts, he headed towards the royal chambers to report to the King.    
  
************  
“Make way for the King’s Steward,” Pharazôn heard the herald announce, the sound echoing in the Great Hall.  The crowd of petitioners parted like waves before the prow of a ship as Lord Azgarad came toward him, his iron heels resounding on the tiles.   He was carrying two large, leather-bound ledgers in his arms.   
  
“That is enough for today,” Pharazôn announced to his guard. “Send the rest of them away.”   
  
There was a barely audible sigh of dismay throughout the room and then the royal guardsmen were on the move, busy herding out all those annoying Umbarians.  Darîkil, the page, was leaning up against a wall looking bored while he waited for an assignment.  Pharazôn wondered where Tigôn was and then remembered that he’d been sent into town to buy the supplies for the Zigûr.    
  
With a squishy thump, Pharazôn sat back on the Regent’s nicely padded throne.  “By Ossë’s nutsack,” he declared. “You’re a gladsome sight, Azgarad.  I was beginning to wonder if there was a single person in Umbar not quarreling with his neighbor over fishing rights, or accusing the wool merchant of fathering his bastard, or his brother of stealing the family goat. I declare the sooner I’m quit of this place, the better.  Um, don’t write that down,” he said to his scribe, Aglahad, who sat on a stool nearby.  Aglahad was still a handsome man, a former zirâmîki from a number of years ago, and cleverer than most of them.    
  
“Of course not, my Lord,” the scribe said.   
  
“Have you heard?” Azgarad said. “They’ve found your cupbearer, Sûla, alive and unharmed.  He’s in a holding cell below.”  
  
“Yes, I heard,” Pharazôn said. “Bildûn, one of the guards who found him, came to see me as soon as they incarcerated the boy.  Expecting a reward for efficiency, no doubt.  I sent him off with an extra month’s pay.  Did you write that down?”  he asked the scribe, who nodded.   
  
“Shall we sup in your chambers?” Azgarad asked. “I have a fearsome appetite after the day I’ve had.”  He turned to Darîkil, the messenger.  “Find Aphanuzîr and send him to the King’s chambers. We have much to discuss.” He tilted his chin at the books in his arms. “My Lord, we’ve got the Regent by his short hairs.”     
                          
**********  
  
“Hmm, interesting,” Pharazôn said as his Steward enthusiastically showed him what he’d found in Rabêlozar’s records.  The King was, in fact, quite bored with it.  He would much rather have a willing boy sitting in his lap.  He was more relaxed now, dressed in a comfortable robe and seated with Lord Azgarad and Aphanuzîr around a table in his chambers.  Several open ledgers and piles of neatly-written accounting sheets lay to hand, along with plates of half-eaten eel pie.  The King took another sip of wine and discovered the cup nearly empty.  Not for the first time, he missed his attentive cupbearer, Sûla.    
  
“I see what you mean.  That’s curious, isn’t it?” Aphanuzîr was saying.  He bent so far over the ledger that the Steward and Counselor’s heads nearly touched.    
  
Pharazôn’s eyes were glazed from looking at the rows and columns of figures neatly entered in a fine hand.  He’d never been one for numbers.   Thank the gods he had a skilled Steward who was very good at these things. What had Annatar said in his bed last night? Oh yes, he had said that he thought Azgarad was competent and trustworthy.  It occurred to Pharazôn that he should appoint his Steward as Regent of Umbar once this business with Rabêlozar was settled. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea.  Then he wouldn’t have to worry about disappearing taxes from this backwater.  Of course, it would only be temporary until they found a suitable replacement.  In the meantime, Aphanuzîr was clever at these things too.  He could oversee Azgarad’s minions who kept track of Númenor’s complicated accounts.  
  
“Look here,” Azgarad was saying. “All these donations to build Zizzûn’s temple with no names attached to the gifts.  But if you look at the amounts coming from the wealthiest Umbarian merchants, you’ll see that they have dropped in the past five years and the difference roughly corresponds to the amount of the donations.” Azgarad was practically rubbing his hands in glee.  
  
“Hmm,” Pharazôn said, trying to look knowledgeable.  
                              
“It means, my Lord, that Rabêlozar has been diverting revenue to his own projects that, by rights, should have come to Númenor.  And here, look at all these household expenses, entertainment, slaves, and the rest.  Sire, the amount he’s stolen has exceeded even what I’d anticipated.  The accounts the merchants turned over to me indicate that they did much better in the past five years than Rabêlozar reported.  Clearly, he’s been skimming funds from revenues that rightfully should have come to Númenor’s treasury.”  
  
Aphanuzîr shook his head in disgust. “All those sad reports he sent about damage done by storms to the fishing industry. I have been suspicious for some time since my information indicated that the weather was not as severe as he made out.”  
  
“We were overdue to check up on him,” Pharazôn said.  “What a snake.  A snake that has eaten an overlarge hare and now has no place to slither off to.” He took a bite of the eel pie, washed it down with the last swallow of strong red wine and then chuckled.  “I’ll give him this, Rabêlozar does have damn fine taste in cooks.”  
  
“He’s claiming, of course, that his exchequer did all this on his own,” Aphanuzîr said, tapping his lip with a fork.  
  
Azgarad snorted.  “Not bloody likely.  But Rabêlozar has gained support among his subjects, particularly the merchants’ guilds, through a combination of bribery and intimidation. We have to prove it beyond a doubt.”  
  
“Huh,” Aphanuzîr snorted. “He’s managed to dispose of all the principle witnesses. Although, my Lord, I think we have enough here to nail him without their testimony. I assume you’re handling the accusations, Azgarad?”   
   
“With your permission, my Lord,” Azgarad said.    
  
“I believe no one is more qualified,” Pharazôn said.  “However, from what you’re showing me, this is going to be difficult to prove in court.  No one will have the patience to go over little ticks in a ledger, especially since Rabêlozar will have invented explanations for all of it. He’s quite a clever little reptile.”  
  
“I’ll do the best I can to prove it to the Umbarians,” Azgarad said gruffly.  “Anyone can see how suspicious all of this looks.”   
  
“Well, I’ve got the winning roll for you,” Pharazôn said, feeling smug.   
  
Both Azgarad and Aphanuzîr looked at him quizzically.  
  
“Let us just say I have someone with special talents who, if the need arises, can discern the truth in these matters,” Pharazôn said.    
  
“Who?” Azgarad said.  Then his glance flicked to meet Aphanuzîr’s in a way Pharazôn did not like.  It suggested conspiracy.  
  
“The Zigûr?” Aphanuzîr guessed.   
  
“The Zigûr,” Pharazôn confirmed.  They both opened their mouths but before they could protest, the King said angrily, “I know what you’re going to say and what you both think of the Lord Annatar. ‘A crow in swan’s plumage’ didn’t you say the other night, Aphanuzîr? You have both warned me until I’m sick of it.  I’m well aware of what he is. But think on this.  If it hadn’t been for Annatar alerting us about the Regent, we would never have discovered the deception in the first place. He helped us win the battle against the Haradrim and he’s promised to turn over all his strategic knowledge. As far as I’m concerned, his assets have outweighed any possible evil he might do. He has certain abilities he can bring to bear in this trial.”  
  
“My Lord, I agree with what you’ve said,” Aphanuzîr replied cautiously. “However, we would do well to remember the elves of Ost-in-Edhil. I strongly protest the use of black magic or whatever this sorcerer has up his sleeve.  Do you want to win over the Umbarian people or scare them to death?”  
  
The King brooded for a moment.  He hated it when his counselors contradicted him and even more when they had good points. “Very well,” he said.  “I shall only use his powers if necessary.”  
  
“I suppose Annatar could prove useful in this instance,” Azgarad said as he fingered the patch of beard on his chin.  “Since he’s the one who told us about Rabêlozar, clearly it serves his interest to be rid of him. It’s good that we want that as well.  But what happens when his interests diverge from ours?  Sire, if I may be so blunt, I worry about the influence he’s cultivated with you.  Please, if you value my long years of service and my good counsel, you will stay away from his person.  I should like him to sail to Númenor on Aphanuzîr’s ship.”  
  
“Stay away from his person,” Pharazôn stated flatly.   “I presume you mean I should not bed him!”  He picked a piece of eel out of his teeth and flicked it away.  
  
“Yes, my Lord, I do mean that,” Azgarad snapped.  “And I only say so out of loyalty and devotion.”  
  
“So noted,” Pharazôn said.  “Do not try my patience any more.  He’s my prisoner and I shall do what I like with him.”  
  
“Where is he now?” Aphanuzîr said.  
  
“In his rooms, brewing his elixir to restore youthfulness,” Pharazôn said.  “Another thing he’s doing that may prove of great value to my Kingdom.”  
  
“You are not going to just drink whatever he hands you!”Aphanuzîr exclaimed.  
  
“Just how stupid do you think I am?” Pharazôn roared.  With a clang, he slammed his bronze cup on the table. “Aphanuzîr, you’ve been my friend for many years and I have no reason to doubt your loyalty, but there are times when you treat me like the boy you once knew, rather than a capable leader.  There are plenty of servants to sample the brew before I taste it.  Perhaps, you would like that honor yourself? Hmmm?  Might be good for your aches and pains.  That is, if it works.  If it doesn’t . . .”  Pharazôn shrugged.  
  
His old mentor straightened up with a look of consternation, which Pharazôn relished.    
  
“If it works,” Azgarad said thoughtfully, “Númenor shall become wealthy beyond anyone’s most avaricious dreams.  What price would anyone who has felt the aches of age pay for renewed youth?”  
  
“Exactly,” Pharazôn said.  “People would sell their souls for it.  Where is the servant to pour the wine?”    
  
“You sent him out not half an hour ago,” Azgarad said. “For honey cakes.  They take a while to bake.”   
  
There came a knock on the door and one of his guards entered. “My Lord, your messenger is here.”  
  
They all looked up as Tigôn slipped in behind the guard. Pharazôn noted that he looked pale and tense. Still, he was a handsome boy.  That mussed curly hair looked as if he’d just tumbled out of bed.  If the King didn’t know that Tigôn’s lord father would object most strenuously, he might even consider . . . . But no, it would not do to start manhandling his other servants.  By the gods, he was missing Sûla just now.  Why had he let Azgarad talk him out of bringing some of his other zirâmîkin?  ‘War is not the place for pleasure boys,’ Azgarad had said. Feh!   Pharazôn eyed his empty wine cup.              
  
“My Lord,” Tigôn said, bowing. “I have delivered all the ingredients requested to the Lord Annatar.  Do you have any assignments for me?”  
  
“Why yes, you can mix and pour wine for us,” Pharazôn replied.   
  
Tigôn looked startled.  But then he inclined his head and went over to the sideboard. “How strong?” he asked.  
  
“One part wine to water,” Pharazôn replied.  He heard the boy pouring liquids together and stirring.  Then, Tigôn returned with the jug and Pharazôn raised his cup to be filled.       
  
“Is Annatar working on the potion?” Pharazôn asked him.  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” Tigôn said. “However, I fear that something is amiss with him.”  He moved over to pour for Aphanuzîr.      
  
“What doesn’t seem right? Explain,” Azgarad said, as Tigôn filled his cup.   
  
“When I checked on him just now, he was acting very strangely, talking to himself or someone unseen.  It sent a chill up my back,” Tigôn said.  “And then he suddenly turned into a dragon and told me to get out.  It was terrifying.”  
  
“He turned into a dragon?” Aphanuzîr asked in alarm.  “Can he do that?”   
  
“I don’t think it was real.  I think he just made me see him that way.  He has the ability to manipulate . . . .”  Tigôn set down the pitcher abruptly and swayed, putting his hand to his forehead.    
  
“What is wrong with you?” Pharazôn said.  
  
“Forgive me, my Lord.  It’s been a long day,” Tigôn said. “And I fear that treating with the sorcerer Magân, he’s the one who sold me the supplies for the Zigûr’s conjuring, well, I have to say, my Lord, it was rather draining.”      
  
“I should like to hear the story sometime, perhaps on the voyage home,” Pharazôn said. “Your service has been good, Tigôn. I shall have to tell your father when next he comes to Armenelos.  But tell me, how did you come to be at the house where my zirâmîki was hiding, just as they had captured him?”   
  
For a moment the boy seemed off his stride.  He opened his mouth, closed it, and then said.  “As I already explained to Bildûn, Magân’s shop was nearby.  I saw the Red Cloaks marching and decided to see where they were going.”  
  
“Indeed,” Pharazôn said.  “So you caught a glimpse of Sûla?”    
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“Did he say anything to you?  Do you think he’s guilty?”  
  
“He did not say anything, my Lord, but I am sure he didn’t do it.”  
  
“And why do you say that?” Azgarad asked.  He closed one of the ledgers with a snap.  
  
“Because,” Tigôn said firmly. “He is a slave and he knows full well what would happen to him if he killed a lord.”  
  
“Crimes of passion don’t usually involve much thought,” Azgarad said.  “But I saw the body and it didn’t look like a crime of passion.  It looked calculated.  One quick jerk with a very sharp blade.  The wound was clean. No other blows on the body.  It bled something fierce.  The bed was soaked through, like the straw on the floor of a butcher’s shop.”  
  
“Indeed,” Pharazôn said.  “I agree that sounds like an assassination. And the belligerent young Lord Dulginzin did not lack for enemies. As we now know, Sûla might have been among them. I must say, I find myself very distressed about this whole matter. The boy was a charming and most talented servant, in every way.  I have been considering the possibility of commuting part of the sentence. Have you ever seen someone drawn before being hanged, Tigôn?”  
  
The boy’s lips thinned as he pressed them together. He shook his head.   
  
“Not a pretty sight,” Pharazôn said. “I remember the last one. When they opened him up, his guts spilled out like a pile of squirming eels. The man’s screams echoed in my ears for a week.”  He stabbed a piece of the eel in his pie and held it up, dripping gravy.   
  
Tigôn turned white, swayed, and went down like a stone. It was only Aphanuzîr’s quick lunge, reaching out and grabbing the boy’s arm, that kept him from cracking his head on the tile.  
  
“By Manwë’s eagles,” Pharazôn declared. “What’s the matter with him?”  
  
“He fainted, and no wonder,” Aphanuzîr said, shooting Pharazôn a stern look.  He slid from his chair, eased the boy to the floor, then patted Tigôn’s cheek.  “Tigôn!” he called.  “Are you well?”  
  
Tigôn groaned and his eyes fluttered open.  So blue they were. “Oh, I . . . , forgive me,” the boy stammered.  
  
There was a knock on the door and the guard entered.  “My King, Lord Nimruzîr is asking permission to see you.”  
  
“Let him come,” Pharazôn said.  “What’s one more at this party?”  
  
Aphanuzîr’s son strode breezily through the door, dressed in his long green cape and smelling of salt air.  His eyes widened at Tigôn lying on the floor, head cradled in Aphanuzîr’s lap.  “Sire,” he said, bowing to the King. “What happened to our messenger?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing,” Tigôn said.  Red-faced, he struggled to sit upright.  
  
“The boy passed out. When did you last eat?” Aphanuzîr said to him.   
  
“Last night, at the banquet,” Tigôn murmured. “And I did not get much sleep last night.”  
  
“Oh well, there you are,” Aphanuzîr said, looking up at the King. “It’s a simple matter to fix. Better send him off to get something in his belly, Pharazôn, or he’ll be no good when you need him tomorrow.”  
  
“Very well,” Pharazôn said, frowning.  “Tigôn, in reward for all your service today, you may go for a bite in the servants’ kitchen and then get some rest.  You will report back to me at daybreak tomorrow.  We need runners to help with preparations for the trials.”  
  
“Thank you, my Lord. That would be most welcome,” Tigôn said.  He slowly got to his feet, looking quite wan.    
  
“Well, I have a solution,” Nimruzîr said heartily. “I have ordered supper sent to my room and was just coming to see if my father had yet eaten. Perhaps Tigôn would care to join us?  With your leave, my Lord, I have a task for him afterwards.”  
  
“Yes, go,” the King said.  “Although the Lords Aphanuzîr and Azgarad are not quite done here.  We haven’t yet discussed preparations for the voyage home.”  
  
“I’ll join you shortly,” Aphanuzîr said. “Take yourselves off.”  
  
Nimruzîr and Tigôn bowed again.   
  
“Oh, before you go to meat, Tigôn,” Pharazôn said.  “Search out young Niduzîn in the kitchens and tell him to get his arse back up here before I have to beat it bloody.” He laughed.     
  
“Yes, my Lord,” Tigôn said.   
  
Such an attractive boy, Pharazôn thought again as he eyed the rounded contours of Tigôn’s departing back side.  Yes indeed.  
******************

rhaw - Sindarin for flesh or body. Hröa is Quenya.        
  


-tbc-


	24. Keeping Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tigôn confesses his sins to Elendil and begs for his help. Meanwhile, Sûla is treated roughly and thrown into a cell, where he despairs of life until he has a visitor. 
> 
> Note: Because Tigôn was raised on the west coast of Númenor, amongst members of the Faithful, his first language is Sindarin, and he knew Elendil and Amandil by their Quenya names, and so that is how he thinks of them.

Tigôn swiped his plate clean with a chunk of bread, which he devoured, chasing it with the last of his wine and then licking his fingers.  With his stomach finally content, he pushed back his plate. There was nothing left on it but a bare skeleton of fish bones.      
  
“Feeling better now?” Elendil asked.  He was resting his chin on his hand, elbow propped on the table, and watching Tigôn with a concerned expression.     
  
“Yes, thank you,” Tigôn said.       
  
“No more dizziness?”                            
  
“No, I’m fine,” Tigôn replied.  “I’m truly sorry about passing out like that. So loutish of me.”  
  
“You don’t need to apologize,” Elendil said. “You’ve been through much today from what you’ve told me about Magân and Annatar.  Two sorcerers are far too many for one young man to handle.  Human fingers, brrr. I think you’ve done very well.”  He poured the rest of the pitcher into Tigôn’s cup. “Did you know I’ve been worried about you?”    
  
“Have you?” Tigôn studied a stain on the white linen.  He could well guess what was coming.  
  
“Yes, it was partly to find you that I came to see the King. You haven’t paid me a visit since the battle at Arzog’s Pass, which I know was a terrible trial for you.  I was beginning to wonder what had happened to our spy.”  
  
“Don’t call me that!”     
  
“It was meant lightly,” Elendil replied.  
  
“It doesn’t feel that way to me,” Tigôn said. “It’s been a burden. I can’t do it anymore.”    
  
“Ah,” Elendil said.  “Clearly, there’s something sticking in your craw. Bring your wine and let’s go sit by the fire in greater comfort.  We have some things to discuss, you and I.”  
  
“Yes, hîren,” Tigôn said.  They sat next to one another in two cushioned chairs by a crackling fire.   There was a large window of expensive glass nearby that overlooked the ocean.   The gloaming sky was a clear shade of violet that steadily lightened to a pinkish hue just along the horizon where the sun had set. Tigôn could see the slow brightening of Eärendil against the darkening backdrop. If he stared hard enough, he almost thought he could make out the sails of Vingilot – a fancy he had from when he was little.  
  
Elendil cradled a wine cup in his large, rough-knuckled sailor’s hand and stared out into the harbor.  This took Tigôn back to a time when he was quite young and his family was visiting Elendil’s manse at Andúnië. He recalled standing next to Elendil on the pier, just as the sun was setting, and looking up and up to see the lord’s lean, angular face. Tigôn thought he’d never seen anyone so tall. The waves shushed in the background as Elendil stared pensively out across their ever-changing shapes, and then shaded his eyes with his hand. When Tigôn asked him what he was looking for, he said, ‘For the white swan-ships from Aman.’    
  
‘Have you ever seen them?’ Tigôn asked breathlessly.    
  
‘Just once I thought I did, when I was about your age.  I’ve always hoped that some day I’d see them again.’  Elendil reached down and set his hand gently on Tigôn’s shoulder.  It was such a comforting gesture that Tigôn didn’t want him to take it away – not ever.  
  
Elendil’s appearance was not quite the same. Now there were flecks of silver in the captain’s shadowy hair, white crow’s feet etched in the fine skin about his eyes, and a worried crease between his dark eyebrows.  But his voice was just as kind and thoughtful as ever. Elendil was like an uncle to him and Tigôn felt ashamed for having deceived him, even if only through omission. His worries lay on him like a weight of one hundred years.  If they executed Sûla, he didn’t know how he would bear it.    
  
“Westernesse,” Elendil said softly. “When the sun sets, I always think of our home across the sea.  Are you anxious to get back, Tigôn?”  
  
“Yes, I’m sick to death of this place.” To his own ears, Tigôn thought he sounded whiny and pathetic.      
  
“I don’t blame you.  I miss, well . . . everything.” Elendil sighed.  “I miss my wife Lórellin’s smile; my noisy, mischievous boys; the soaring white cliffs and the air whirring with screeching gulls and pelicans at the port of Rómenna. I miss the clear light of the afternoon turning the walls golden, and the sweet chirping of the wrens at dawn.  I miss the smell of wet earth in the garden.”  
  
“For me, it’s my mother’s cinnamon apple tarts with clotted cream, and my father mussing up my hair and calling me ‘silly pup,’” Tigôn said.   I miss my innocence, he thought.  
  
“Do you remember when you and your brother Zoganîr came to stay with us at Andúnië?”  
   
“We came for maybe five or six summers all told,” Tigôn said.  
  
“Yes, I’m thinking of the time when you boys went out to explore the old lighthouse and you fell through the floor into the cellar.”  
  
“I well remember.  I still carry the scar,” Tigôn said, tapping his knee. “We wanted to go explore because the place was said to be haunted. I swear it was.  I heard a voice in my ear and that’s when I fell off the beam. Why are you remembering that now?”  
  
“Because it was Isildur who convinced you all to go, although I’d expressly forbidden it, and yet you refused to implicate him, even when I threatened punishment. You said you’d gone out there on your own. I confined you to your room until your brother finally squealed.”  
  
“Yes, I remember,” Tigôn said, with a half-smile.    
  
Actually, none of the boys had ever revealed the full truth to Elendil.  Isildur had taken them out to the cape as cover because he was meeting up with a girl at a nearby cottage.  He left Zoganîr, Anárion, and Tigôn to play in the lighthouse during his assignation and when Tigôn fell, Anárion had to run half a league to get his brother, who returned shirtless and disgruntled to help haul Tigôn out of the pit. But Tigôn decided the whole truth was better left unspoken. “What makes you remember that now?” he asked.  
  
“Because, even though you were the youngest of the lot, you would rather take the punishment on yourself than betray a friend.  I admire that about you Tigôn.  I’m guessing that you and Sûla have become friends and that’s why you stopped reporting what you knew about him and the Zigûr.  Is that right?”  
  
“We have become friends. That is the truth,” Tigôn said.  He couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice.  “You asked me to do something that I could no longer in good conscience do.”  
  
Outside, the stars were starting to prick their way through the fabric of the heavens.  Elendil nodded.  “I know that and respect you for it.  But you have to understand that sometimes there are larger issues at stake than friendship.  Let us say Sûla told you something that was critical to the safety of your family, or even all of Númenor, but it meant betraying his confidence. What would you do?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Tigôn said.  “I think I’d have to see what it was.  I hope I’m never faced with that.”  
  
“Tigôn, those of us closest to Ar-Pharazôn are afraid of Annatar’s influence. The King refuses to heed our advice and therefore we are helpless to do anything about it.  The only defense we have is to watch and to listen. As a messenger, you are privy to much that I am not.  I need your eyes and ears. I need to know if Annatar’s influence is spreading.  There may come a time when all our loyalties are put to the test.  I need to know which side you’ll choose.”  
  
“How can I know what is the right thing to do?” Tigôn asked.  “I don’t want to betray anyone.”  
  
Elendil eyed him narrowly. “That night when you returned from visiting the Haradren camp, something strange happened.   I’ve had reports from some of the men who were there at the front line, including Hazûn.  He said that when the Haradren warrior took you hostage, Sûla arose from the grass and said some strange, ugly words – Hazûn thought they sounded like Black Speech – and a great wind came up that made the Haradren’s horse go mad.  Is that so?”  
  
“I’m not exactly sure what happened,” Tigôn lied. “Sûla shouted something and the horse reared and I fell off.  All I know is, when Sûla could have turned tail and saved himself, he came back and made me get up and run.  I owe him my life.  He has been a good friend and true and I was not kind to him after that, because of what he was, because he was a zirâmîki.  I feel ashamed for spying on him, even if I could not report anything of consequence.”  
  
Elendil cocked his head. “I’m sorry about your friend’s plight.  Personally, I’m not fond of the King’s penchant for keeping pleasure slaves.  This isn’t the first time it’s led to problems.”  
  
“Problems! They’re going to hang him tomorrow and there is nothing I can do to stop it!” Tigôn cried out in anguish. “I cannot believe the King would be willing to execute the man he’s been sleeping with for the past year merely on the say-so of that conniving Izindor! Why can’t he wave his hand and free him? You should have heard the King explaining what they will do to him!” Tigôn took a gulp of the wine to hide the impending tears.  “And it happens,” he said fiercely, “that it is Annatar, the creature you think so little of, who may be Sûla’s best hope of escaping from a terrible death. You see why I’m having a hard time distrusting him?”  
  
“What does the Zigûr know about it?” Elendil said intently.  
  
“Annatar is a Truthsayer.  He told me that he thinks Sûla is innocent.  And I think so too.”  
  
“What proof does Annatar have?”  
  
“I don’t know, but I believe what he says,” Tigôn replied. “I’ve spent some time with him the past couple of days . . . and he’s uncanny.” Tigôn shivered. He couldn’t say why he felt uncomfortable but it seemed bound up with that blank space in his memory from when he visited the Zigûr that morning. “Annatar appears to have the ability to see things that the rest of us cannot.  I believe he’s far more powerful than any of us know.  To speak honestly, he scares the shite out of me.”  
  
Elendil nodded.  “Me too.”    
  
“But Sûla needs him now,” Tigôn said. “And therefore, so do I.”  
  
There was a silence in which Tigôn listened to the quiet hiss of the fire.  The dance of flames reminded him of Annatar’s eyes that afternoon.  “I think something is wrong with the Zigûr, though,” he said.  “He was talking to someone I couldn’t see and it didn’t seem a friendly conversation.”  
  
Elendil sat up. “That’s interesting.  Tell me what he said.”  
  
“He said to shut up and at first I thought he meant me, but then clearly he didn’t.  And he told someone that even if the ingredients of the potion were not perfect, they would be sufficient to fold, what was the word he used? Rhaw. To fold someone back into his rhaw.  And then it seemed one arm wouldn’t do what he wanted and he had to wrestle it down with the other, as if he was fighting off an unseen foe.”  
   
“You’re sure he wasn’t mumming?”  
  
“It didn’t look like it.”  
  
“Huh,” Elendil bit his lip. “Well Tigôn. I don’t know what to make of that information, but more than ever, it tells me we need to keep a close watch on him. Can you continue being my eyes and ears?  I won’t ask you to report on your friend.”              
  
“I will do what I can, hîren.  But, when I agreed to do this for you before, I did not know how, um, complicated it would be.  Sûla . . . .” His voice caught.  
  
Elendil looked at him carefully.  “There’s more to this relationship with Sûla, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me.”  
  
Miserably, Tigôn nodded his head.  “I’m terrified of what will happen at the trial, of what Annatar might reveal.”  
  
“And what might he reveal, Tigôn?”  Elendil was regarding him gravely with those star-lit eyes.    
  
“Where Sûla was all night,” Tigôn whispered.  
  
The crease in Elendil’s forehead deepened. “Was he with you?”    
  
Tigôn looked into his cup at the trembling pool of wine, red as blood.  He nodded.    
  
Elendil frowned.  “And I take it you weren’t merely having a friendly conversation by the fire, like we are now?”  
  
Tigôn caught his arm.  “Please, please, don’t tell my father.  He’d never forgive me!”  
  
“Ah, now you put me in the same dilemma you wish to avoid,” Elendil said.  “I’m very, very unhappy about this turn of events.”  
  
“I’m not exactly pleased about it, either.”  
  
“What are your feelings about this affair?”  
  
Elendil’s expression had become stern and hard.  Tigôn remembered that, as a child, he’d been afraid of the sea captain’s slow temper.  He took in a breath, figuring that since he’d begun to spill his heart, he may as well finish. “It was just last night. We’d never done anything before.  And I can’t even tell you how it came about. But, it was good,” he admitted. “It didn’t feel wrong at all.  He was warm and sweet to me and I realized that . . . um, I liked it. I just, I know that even if this murder hadn’t happened, if the King were to find out . . . .”  
  
Elendil worried his lip with his teeth. “Right. That wouldn’t be so good,” he finished. “I agree.  And you’re afraid this may come out in the questioning tomorrow?”  
  
“I’m his best defense that he wasn’t in the room with Dulginzin.”  
  
“Where did he go once he left your room this morning?”  
  
“He said he was going back to Dulginzin’s bedchamber because the King commanded him to spend the night there.  He was worried Dulginzin might have awakened during the night and noticed he had left.”  
  
“So, Sûla could have killed him when he went back?”  
  
Tigôn nodded miserably.  “But, it just didn’t seem like he’d do that. If he was going to kill him, surely he would have done it before he left?”  
  
“Are you sure he didn’t?”  
  
“I think I would have noticed something.  He’s not a cold murderer, hîren.”  
  
“I can’t tell you how concerned I am to hear about this affair with the King’s zirâmîki.  And Tigôn, I never thought you . . . of all young men. Let me just say I’m very. . . surprised.”  
  
“None more than me, hîren,” Tigôn said.  “I’ve been a good servant for the King.  I’ve done everything he’s asked and more.  I didn’t plan this, but when Sûla showed up at my door in the small hours last night with that big bruise on his face from Dulginzin hitting him, well, I couldn’t throw him out, could I?”  
  
“Are you saying he seduced you?”  
  
“No, we both wanted it.  It’s been building . . . for some time.”  
  
“I see.”  Elendil rubbed a hand through his silver-flecked hair.  “If this comes out, it will damage your position at court and may follow you the rest of your life.  And it will hurt your father who is my friend. I would hate to see that.  But in truth, I don’t see any reason why it needs to be revealed.  Sûla came to see you because you’re friends. You’ve been playing bones together.  That must be what you were doing, yes?”  
  
“I’d thought of that,” Tigôn said.  “I don’t know whether it will work, not if the Zigûr is poking around in Sûla’s head.  You don’t know, you haven’t seen . . . .”  
  
“You could always deny that he visited you.  It would be Sûla’s word against yours.”  
  
“Would you have me lie and betray my friend?”  
  
Elendil looked at him solemnly and then gave him a bare smile. “No, I wouldn’t. But I fear for what our jealous King might do to you.  Let’s just hope it doesn’t come out.  You could still be the boy I knew from that summer at Andúnië and tell only part of the truth.”  
  
Tigôn glanced up at him. “What?”    
                      
“I found out about Isildur’s little tryst some time after the day you fell,” Elendil said, with a grim smile. “I have my own methods of finding out things, you know.  I swear that boy’s affairs will come to bite him one day.”  
  
“Ah, well, I guess that’s one more secret I can release to the Void,” Tigôn said. “In any event, as you pointed out, the fact that Sûla and I were together that night doesn’t prove he didn’t do it.  I fear my reputation will be ruined, and still it won’t save him. We could hardly be in more trouble, could we?”  
  
Elendil clicked his tongue. “This is a heap of trouble, yes.”  
  
“There’s more,” Tigôn said. “When I was at Magân’s, he let me use his soup, a liquid in a bowl that allows you to see things. I asked where Sûla was hiding and it showed me the King’s guard going after him. I was trying to warn him, so I ran to where he was, but the Red Cloaks got there before me.  When they brought him out of the house, Sûla  saw me and he gave me a look such as to freeze the bone. He thinks I betrayed him.”  
  
“That’s unfortunate,” Elendil said.  “I’m sorry.”    
  
“I need to see him,” Tigôn said suddenly.  “I can’t let him go to the gallows believing I did that to him.”  
  
“That may be difficult,” Elendil said. “The prisoners are heavily guarded.”  
  
“You are captain of a fleet, commander of half a legion, and a member of the Council,” Tigôn said.  “Surely, you have the authority.” He caught up Elendil’s hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it.  “Please, my lord, I’ve opened my heart to you.  I’ve risked much to ‘spy’ for you and Lord Amandil.  Please, I beg of you, help me now.”  Tears sprang into Tigôn’s eyes.  He blinked to keep them from spilling.       
  
Elendil patted Tigôn shoulder.  “You care for him, don’t you?”  
  
Tigôn nodded.    
  
“Very well.”  Elendil rose. “Let me see what I can arrange.  I think perhaps you could carry a message from me to him. Let’s hope this doesn’t get us all into trouble.”  
  
********************  
  
It was cold, so cold in the prison that had been delved deep in the rock below Umbar’s palace. A torch guttered on the wall just outside his cell, casting eerie flickering shadows. Sûla sat on a bare bed with his arms wrapped about himself. He could hear the clatter of dice as the two guards just outside his cell amused themselves, as well as the blubbery moaning of Lord Rabêlozar down the corridor, and the faint crashing of waves upon the rocks outside.  
  
As they were bringing him down the stairs to the dungeon, Sûla had thought that if he could just get one of the guards alone, he would use the freezing spell and try to escape. But as the stairs lengthened, the corridors passed, and they went through two locked and guarded iron gates, he realized how impossible that plan was. And even if by some miracle, he did escape, where would he go? Back to his aunt? Ha!  
  
The four members of the King’s Guard had hauled him to a room warmed by several hot coal braziers, the walls ominously displaying torture devices. There, they unlocked the cuffs on his wrists and stripped him to make sure he carried no hidden weapons. Sûla learned from their conversation that the Regent’s exchequer had supposedly hung himself with a neck chain the night before, resulting in two Umbarian guards being executed for dereliction of duty, so the Red Cloaks were making sure nothing of the sort happened to them.  
  
Sitting on his cot, Sûla seethed with resentment. He had known several of these men while he’d been a favorite in the King’s court. He’d always spoken them fair and could not believe how poorly they had treated him. Although he figured that the worst of the lot, a grinning lout named Hozdûnik, was getting revenge for having been flogged on his account.     
  
As Hozdûnik unbuttoned Sûla’s jacket, he had said with a smirk, “This feels like undressing a whore. Oh, I forgot, that’s what you are.” He leered at Sûla, then bent to jerk the zirâmîki’s trousers down to his boots, exposing him completely.  He gripped a handful of Sûla’s arse, painfully pulling one cheek aside and laughing at Sûla’s gasp. “Feast your eyes on that, mîkin, that’s prime King’s arse-meat, that is.” One of the other guards snickered.    
                                      
The fat-cheeked one, Sikhulzin, picked up Sûla’s trousers, which made a jingling sound. He shook them out and there was a bright clatter of metal as Sûla’s rings, bracelets, and earrings tumbled out of his pockets to the floor.  The sound made Sûla’s hackles rise.  No! Those were his!  He made a lunge for the jewelry and was brought up sharp by Hozdûnik grabbing his arms.  
  
“Will you look at this!” Sikhulzin stooped and picked up a ring set with rubies.  It glittered brightly in his hand.    
  
“I wonder how many times you had to suck the King’s cock to get that one!” Hozdûnik said.  
  
“You have no idea, arsehole,” Sûla snarled. “Clearly, I was quite good at it. Better than you!” Sûla earned himself a punch that knocked his head sideways. A bloom of pain flared in his abused cheek.  
  
“Quit it,” the blond guard named Milzagar said, “or I’m reporting you. The King wanted him in one piece.”  
  
“Why bother? This one is crows’ meat, anyway,” Hozdûnik said.  
  
“The King will see what his face looks like tomorrow and you’ll get another flogging,” Milzagar replied. “Let’s get on with it. I don’t want to be down here any longer than I have to.”  
  
“Raise your arms, slave!” Hozdûnik barked.  
  
_Gahhh, they’ll take everything!_ Sûla thought. He knew he couldn't avoid the inevitable, but he could not help himself.  He made his arms rigid and the guard had to forcibly pull them back, while Sikhulzin stripped the jacket off in one quick peel. There were gasps as the four of them stared open-mouthed at the golden dragon with the ruby eyes that coiled up Sûla’s upper right arm.  
  
“The zirâmîki is wearing a fortune!” Sikhulzin exclaimed, his eyes widening within their fatty folds.  
  
“It’s mine!” Sûla cried. “Given to me by the King himself. It anything happens to it, he’ll know.”  
  
But it was too late. There was a scramble for his rings and bracelets, and both Sikhulzin and Hozdûnik hurt Sûla trying to wrench the dragon off his arm.  
  
“It's protected by a curse,” Sûla cried desperately. "If anyone takes it for his own, he will die with its tail wrapped around his neck.”  
  
“Ha, ha!” Hozdûnik chortled. “As if I believe that one.”  
  
  
Now lying on the cot, his body hurting in many places from the rough treatment he’d received, Sûla felt a keen sense of loss. They had taken his jewelry, his gifts from the King that he had worked and schemed so hard to get. That finery had been his future, his dream of freedom and setting up in a shop somewhere. So much for trying to buy respectability.  No doubt all of it was, even now, being wagered in a game of bones in the warm guard room down the hall. And they had taken Dulginzin’s fur-lined cloak, which he sorely missed. He’d been left only with his thin dancing trousers, Dulginzin’s overlarge and clunky boots, and Tigôn’s woolen jacket.  
  
Sûla caught a whiff of something like rotten eggs and his nose wrinkled. It was probably some of that filth that had been thrown at him by the Umbarians. He combed his fingers through his tangled hair and removed some leafy chunks, which he flung away. Gah! He prided himself on his appearance, his perfumed perfection while at court. This was misery! What he wouldn’t give for a hot bath.  
  
He longed to go back to the time, just before dawn, when he had awakened by Tigôn’s side and kissed his soft curls, enjoying the warmth of his body.  He wanted to regain that feeling of peaceful bliss; to feel, if only for one moment in his life, that he was someone’s beloved.    
  
But that was before the whole world had turned against him.  
  
Anger flared up in his heart. Tigôn, that bastard! He had talked to Sûla as if he were an equal, not like a slave, had jested with him, taken him in his arms, and spoken loving words. And now, he was just like all of the rest! No, he was worse than any of them!  None of the others had promised love. Why had he shown up at his aunt’s house? How could Tigôn have possibly known where he was?  
  
Despair settled like a giant wet frog into Sûla’s chest. What had he done to be so unloved? He knew he was beautiful and charming. His gifts and all his work – and he would challenge anyone who thought it wasn’t _work_ to try it – had made him the Númenórean King’s favorite. So why did no one come to his aid now? Not the King, not anyone at court, not even Tigôn. They all found him expendable. Something you could kick out into the alley like that mangy dog he saw eating filth this morning.  
      
And then there were all his worthless family members who'd betrayed him: his aunt, his mother, and his step-father, Khunig, who had always said Sûla would come to a bad end. _So, Khunig, you son of a warg.  Are you happy that you were right?_ Sûla thought.  
  
He got up and paced about his little cell, which was bare but for the cot and a piss pot. This was what was left of his life. This! Pressing his face against the cold bars, he heard the Regent yelling something down the hall. Clearly he wasn’t going to meet his doom quietly. Sûla could find scant sympathy for him. You brought this on yourself, you greedy bastard, he thought. You had everything. Whereas I, what did I do but try to survive?  
  
Was this to be his last night on earth? Would he be horribly executed in the morning? He shivered again and sank back onto the cot. Where did people go after they died? Would he fly into the heavens to dice with Lord Zizzûn, as some thought? Or exist in some barren, forsaken wasteland, always crying, as others said? He could well believe that last, since that was where he was right now – a barren, forsaken wasteland. Unloved, unwanted. Expendable garbage.  
  
Hot tears slipped down his face.  
  
***************  
“Sûla! You have a visitor,” a gruff voice called.  Sûla sat up groggily and through the bars of his cell saw two of the guards standing there; one holding a smoking torch.  The dream he’d been having scuttled away into the shadows. Crows. He’d been surrounded by them, looking at him with greedy black eyes and calling to one another with harsh croaks. Annatar appeared.  He leaned over, whispering something; then he had turned into a wolf with fiery eyes.  Sûla’s heart was still thumping with fright.    
  
“I have a visitor?” he asked suspiciously, peering through the gloom.  The guards had changed since he’d nodded off.  Now it was square-jawed Milzagar and that other one with the beaky nose, Dâur.  Sûla’s heart sped up until he thought it would pound out of his chest.  Could Ar-Pharazôn have come to release him?  He didn’t dare hope.  
  
“It’s one of the King’s pages, bearing a message from Lord Nimruzîr,” Dâur said.  
  
“What?”  Sûla was flooded with a series of conflicting emotions: anger, hope, confusion, despair.  He stood shakily and tried to comb his hair into place with his fingers.  “I, I don’t want to see him,” he said.  
  
“You don’t have a choice, mîki,” Milzagar said.  He turned and beckoned, then stuck the torch back in its bracket on the wall.  Sûla heard light footsteps coming down the corridor.   As the slim figure approached, his head was backlit so all Sûla saw was the halo of curly blond hair resembling some elf hero from the old songs.  He rubbed his eyes.  
  
“Sûla?” Tigôn’s face came into focus as he drew closer and peered in at him.  He turned to the guards, straightened his shoulders, and declared, “I’ve come to deliver two messages to the King’s cupbearer Sûla, one from his Majesty Ar-Pharazôn, and one from Lord Nimruzîr.”     
  
The guards blinked at him. “The messages are for his ears, alone,” Tigôn said firmly.  
  
“We’ve been instructed not to let him out of our sight,” Dâur drawled.    
  
“And I’ve been given my instructions from the King himself,” Tigôn retorted. “If you like, you may go down the corridor, sit in your nice warm room, where I assure you I was most thoroughly searched for weapons and read over the official letter I left with your fellows. This corridor is a dead end and he’s behind iron bars. Neither of us is going anywhere.”     
  
“Very well.  Make it quick,” said Dâur. The guards retreated, seemingly grateful for the chance to rest in comfort.    
  
Tigôn turned and said in a hushed voice, “Sûla, by Manwë, it’s good to see you.”  
  
“I wish I could say the same,” Sûla replied coldly. “So what does the King have to say? Oh, let me guess. ‘You have a sweet arse, Sûla, and you warmed my bed nicely.  I’m so sorry I have to hang you tomorrow.’”  
  
“The message is actually from Lord Nimruzîr,” Tigôn replied. “He says that he will urge the King not to make assumptions, but to listen to your testimony and make a fair judgement based on your past character and service to the Crown.”  
  
Sûla snorted.  “I suppose I’m doomed then.”  
  
Tigôn came closer and grasped the bars of the cell. “I think not, although it does look grim. How are you faring? I can see another bruise on your face.”  
  
“Oh, I’ve been treated like a lord,” Sûla replied. “Never better. It’s only the best for a zirâmîki accused of murder, don’t you know. Why did you come? Wasn’t it enough to see my humiliation at my dear aunt’s house?”  
  
“No, Sûla, it wasn’t what you think.”            
  
“What am I to think?”  
  
“Listen to me!” Tigôn lowered his voice to a bare whisper.  “The King sent me out to get the herbs and things that the Zigûr needed to brew his elixir of youth.  Annatar told me to go to a Lorcastrîn sorcerer named Magân.  So, I went there and bought all the ingredients, and then I found out he had a bowl of some dark liquid, he called it his soup, and he let me look in it.  I saw the soldiers coming for you, so I left his shop at a run to try to warn you.  But when I got there it was too late, they had already captured you.  That’s what happened.  Truly, Sûla, that’s why I was there. I couldn’t bear for you to think. . . .”  
  
“You saw me in Magân’s scrying soup?” Sûla said incredulously. He sat down abruptly on the cot and passed a hand through his hair, rumpling it in his hand, as he looked down at his knees.  “I’ve heard of him and what he can do.  You must have been impressive for him to scry for you.  And here I thought . . . I thought . . . .”  
   
“I could tell what you thought from the look on your face,” Tigôn said.  “If I could have been there earlier, I might have been able to warn you. Believe me, that’s what I was trying to do.”  
  
“And what good would that have done anyhow?  They would have hunted me down all the same. Tell me, what are they saying out there?  Am I already condemned?  I keep dreaming of crows.”  
  
“From what I understand, the King will be fair, but he can’t appear to favor a slave over a lord.”  
  
“No, of course not,” Sûla hissed. “A year in his service, dancing my arse off, for what?”  
  
“I don’t know what to say.”  
  
“There is nothing to say.” Sûla hung his head.  His tongue felt swollen; he licked his lips.  “It’s so dry down here.”  
  
“Here,” Tigôn fumbled at his side.  “I brought some wine, well-watered.”  He held up a wineskin. “And some bread and cheese.”  
  
Sûla rose and approached him. Tentatively, he reached out and took the heavy skin, turning it sideways so he could haul it through the bars. “It’s not poisoned, is it?”  
  
Tigôn looked unhappily at him.  “And why would I do that?”  
  
“If you were my friend, you would do it so I can avoid a worse death tomorrow.”  
  
“Hmm, I guess I’m not such a friend,” Tigôn said. “I still have some hope.”  
  
Sûla tilted his head and pressed a thin stream into his mouth.  It was redolent with the taste of leather, but he thought he’d never had anything finer.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah, that’s good.  Cheese, you said?  And bread?”  
  
“Yes, fresh-baked.  I went to the kitchens for it.  Here.”  He pulled two small halves of a loaf from his bag and a round of cheese in yellow wax.  
  
The rich smell reminded Sûla of how hungry he was.  He sank down on the floor next to the bars and reached for the loaves, ripping off a bite.  He closed his eyes, chewing blissfully.  “By the gods, Tigôn, this tastes good.  I’m surprised those ghouls didn’t take it from you.  They took everything of mine.  All my jewelry, including my dragon, and my fur cloak.  Well, it really wasn’t mine, it was Dulginzin’s. But I guess he doesn’t need it anymore.  I do. It’s so cold here.”  
  
Tigôn crouched down on the floor opposite him. “I’m sorry they took your jewelry, Sûla.  They went over everything I had thoroughly, examined the sealed missive I had from Lord Nimruzîr instructing me to talk to you. They even ripped the bread in half to make sure I wasn’t hiding a knife in it. And they made me strip down.  Brrr,” he shuddered. “I see you’re still wearing my jacket.”  
  
“Do you want it back?” Sûla said, looking down at the row of wooden buttons. “I suppose I can’t be colder than I am already.”  He took another squirt of the wine.  “This will help though.”  
  
“No, no, of course I don’t want it back. Keep it for now.  Are you cold?  Here.” Tigôn unpinned his cape, wadded it up, and pushed it through the bars.  
  
“Um, thank you.”  Sûla took the cape, drew it around his shoulders and pinned the brooch.  It smelled like Tigôn.  He breathed in deeply. Then picked up the loaf and tore off another bite.  “Do you want some?”  
  
“No, I brought it for you. Tell me, what happened after you left my room this morning?”  
  
Sûla had to chew and swallow before he could answer.  “I went back to Lord Dulginzin’s bedchamber, all prepared to offer up my arse in homage to his great lordliness.”    
  
“He was a beast,” Tigôn said fiercely, “with no right to treat you the way he did.  So, what happened?”  
  
“When I entered the room, he was lying in bed, very still.  I thought it strange. The room smelled odd.  I leaned over him, and pulled on his shoulder, and Tigôn, his head rolled in this sickening way, like it was disconnected from his neck, which in fact it almost was.  Someone had slit his throat, deeply, ear to ear.”  Sûla made a slicing motion across his neck.  “And you should have seen all the blood! The bed was soaked black with it.”  
  
“Was it still wet?” Tigôn asked.  
  
“Yes.  It had been done recently.  I went out and looked in the outer chamber.  No one was there, but the door was ajar.  I think I had left it closed.  I don’t know who did it, but I can tell you it wasn’t me.  I suspect Mirandor, Dulginzin’s younger brother, because he was hanging around.  He wanted to watch Dulginzin fuck me.”  
  
“Uh! Nasty,” Tigôn said.  
  
Sûla shrugged. “With my kind of work, you get used to all kinds of weird quirks. But after Dulginzin passed out, he wanted me to service him too.”    
  
Tigôn made a face.  
  
“Yeah,” Sûla said. “The King never told me I had to do that. To get rid of him, I used the freezing spell and then dragged him into the outer room.  Then I went over the balcony to see you. That’s the sum of what happened.  I didn’t do it, Tigôn.  This I swear!”  The tears were threatening again.  He took another bite of bread and began peeling the wax from the cheese.  “This is very kind of you, so very . . . I thought everyone had . . .   I’m sorry.”  Sûla choked.  “My belovéd aunt didn’t even wait a day before she told them. I thought you had betrayed me too.  I thought I was all alone and it made me so . . . angry.” The tears were falling freely now.  
  
Tigôn reached through the bars, took Sûla’s head between his hands, and kissed the top of it.  “I’ll make a vow, Sûla, never to betray you. I promise.”     
  
“An easy promise to keep since they’re likely to hang me tomorrow,” Sûla said with a quirk of his mouth. “We’ll see what happens to your vow when my only defense is that I spent the night with you. You can’t admit it either or the King will have your hide too.”  
  
“That’s something I wanted to talk to you about.  There’s no need to admit what we did. You should say you visited me, but we were just talking by the fire, playing bones, as we usually do.”  
  
“Ha! Do you think I’m stupid? No, I planned to say, ‘my Lord, I went there to take Tigôn’s virginity and we fucked like conies in springtime.’”  
  
Tigôn smiled that shy, lopsided smile.  “We did, didn’t we?”  He swept his thumbs across Sûla’s cheekbones, smearing the wetness that lay there.  Tigôn’s face was starkly lit by the torches, which made his eyes seem like mirrors, reflecting warmth and comfort.  Sûla thought he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.    
  
Tigôn tilted his head, pressed his face to the bars, and their mouths met.  At first gently, then hungrily. His lips were so warm. Sûla opened his mouth wider and tasted him, brushing their tongues together.  _I need more, give me more, Tigôn,_ he thought. _You are such bliss!_  
  
When they finally separated, Tigôn rested his forehead on the iron bars. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to bend these apart and take you away from here.”     
  
Sûla heard voices down the corridor and Tigôn turned his head to look.  “Quickly then,” he said.  “I had to be sure that you didn’t kill him, so we could figure the best course of action. Don’t give up hope. Annatar is a Truthsayer and he says he believes you are innocent.  At the trial he can verify your story.”  
  
“That’s good,” Sûla said.  For the first time that day, hope flared in his breast. “But I’m afraid he’ll reveal, um, things. Our tryst.”  
  
“I’ll take a message to him asking if he can keep his truth-finding to when you discovered Dulginzin’s death, and not reveal anything else. That way we’ll both be safe.  And the King will pardon you and all will be forgiven.”  
  
Sûla shook his head. “Risky. Annatar is a lone wolf with his own schemes. I don’t know if we can trust him.”  
  
“What choice do we have?” Tigôn asked.  
  
“None.  We have none.  Give me another kiss, and hope it’s not our last.”  
  
“It isn’t,” Tigôn said. “I have faith.” And he gave Sûla a lingering kiss.  If only it could go on forever!    
  
The sound of the guards’ iron-shod boots echoed down the corridor.  Tigôn rose, and without another word, went to meet them.    
  
Sûla watched him as far as he was able to through the bars. Once Tigôn was out of sight, he gathered up the wineskin, bread and cheese and brought it with him to the cot, where he rapidly ate the food before the guards could decide to steal it, washing it down with the wine. Then he wrapped Tigôn’s cloak tightly about himself and sagged back against the wall. His heart was singing with a feeling that was both bitter and sweet. _He came, he came to see me!_  
  
But when he closed his eyes, he found the dream awaiting him. It surrounded him in its own dark cloak and he heard Annatar hiss in his ear, _There will be a price, Sûla._  
  
A terrible heaviness stole back into Sûla’s limbs. Was he doomed then? If nothing else, he could take the warmth of Tigôn’s last kiss with him on the long walk to the gallows.  
  
**************  
rhaw - Sindarin for body.  Hröa is the equivalent term in Quenya.  
hîren - my lord in Sindarin.   In this instance, think of it as a sign of respect, the equivalent of saying “sir.”          
Milzagar, Sikhulzin, and Hozdûnik are invented Adûnaic names.  
Dâur is canon Adûnaic meaning “gloom.”  Thanks Mal!  
  
*************************                


	25. Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sûla is tried for murder and Annatar’s ability as a truthsayer is brought into play. Tigôn has a final ploy to use if all is lost, but will Annatar trump them all?

“Shut up, shut up!” Mairon hissed, holding his hands over his ears, which was a futile gesture since the cries came from deep inside his head. What a night! He had contemplated bashing his brains in just to be rid of the voice torturing him endlessly with mournful elvish songs. But then he reasoned, why destroy such a magnificent creation just because of a hitch in plans? He must be patient. Patient. _There was a lovely Sindarin lass, she lived just o’er the hill_ . . . Aiiii! He found some distraction through watching the slow simmering of the liquid in the cauldrons set over the fire, noticing how the bubbles appeared and disappeared, and comparing them to ones he had observed issuing from within molten rock in the bowels of the earth. The brew seemed to be taking forever.  He should invent some new aphorisms. ‘A watched pot never boils,’ would be a good one, even better would be: ‘a wizard should never test a spell on himself.’  
  
In the dark hour just before dawn, he dipped up a ladle-full of the frothy liquid and held it to a lamp to examine the color. It was ready. He poured in into a large, two-handled cup and mixed in some wine.  
  
“This will shut you up, Fingaer, you piece of Golodhren filth!” Mairon declared, and then nearly dropped the cup as a loud “No!” resounded in his head. He tried to raise the cup to his lips, but his arm seemed stuck in place, vibrating furiously. “Let go, curse you! Curse you to the Void!” he roared. Bending his head, he managed to bring the cup to his mouth and took a large swallow. The liquid stung his tongue and seemed to hiss all the way down his throat. Suddenly his arm was his own and he was able to rapidly chug down the rest of the brew. An internal shriek caused him to drop the cup with a crash, and cower down, hugging his cramping belly.  
  
Slowly the pain subsided. He waited, listening for a voice, a whisper, a moan. Nothing.  
  
Ah finally! Blissful quiet with only his own thoughts for company. Mairon felt as if he’d been ill for a long time and had awakened suddenly to renewed health and vigor. He danced a little jig around the room. And then he realized that his foot was quite sound again too. Ha! He snapped his fingers. So much for the weakling elf!  
  
Feeling smug, and not a little relieved, he carefully packed up all the left-over powders and conjuring bits into the satchel so that he’d have enough ingredients in case he needed another dose on the voyage to Númenor and then he went back to his chair by the fire. There would be no more distractions. Now he could bend his will fully to the other events he’d set in motion. He could feel them out there, simmering like the liquid in his kettle. When he extended his senses, he could tell that the young messenger lad, Tigôn, would pay him a visit soon to ask for help. The more help all these fools needed, the better his position became. Soon it would be time to unveil some of his power.  Not too much. A little fear would be good for them.  
  
He rose to stir the other potion, the elixir of youth. This was to be his masterpiece. The key to his return to power. He poured himself another cup of wine and sat back in his chair, basking in a warm glow of cleverness.  
  
One of the guards knocked briskly on his door and announced the King.  
  
“Come,” Mairon called.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn entered, looking weary with dark circles accenting his eyes. Mairon cupped a hand over his mouth to hide a smirk. He coughed, then inclined his head. “Good morning, my Lord. You seem a bit, um, not yourself this morning.”  
  
The King scowled at him. “In truth, I feel awful,” he declared. “Everything aches. It must be the damp chill here. I took a walk through the courtyard earlier and the wind cut right through my garments. I long to return to Armenelos.” He came over to the cauldron simmering on the fire, bent down, and took a whiff. “Is that the um . . . the elixir?”  
  
“It is,” Mairon said.  
  
“It smells terrible. When will it be ready?”  
  
“Don’t be so impatient, my Lord. These things take time to brew up properly. You wouldn’t want to drink it still green and end up with only the upper half of your body restored while the rest shriveled up like an old man.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said. “And you won’t like what will happen to you if that were to happen to me.”  
  
“It will be ready tomorrow morning.”  
  
“Well good. Good.” The King rubbed his hands and looked around the room. “I came to talk to you about the trials this afternoon.”  
  
Mairon smiled and lowered his lashes. “Of course. How may I be of service, my Lord?”  
  
******************  
The Regent’s trial had become a spectacle, the event that everyone wanted to see. The Great Hall that served as Rabêlozar’s audience chamber was lit with many hanging lamps and filled with the sound of music and voices. Umbar’s wealthy merchants, priests, and other elite had turned out, bedecked in their finest clothing and jewels, and the hall roared with their conversations. At the back of the hall, white-robed musicians banged a slow, steady beat on drums held by straps over their shoulders, while others played a solemn dirge on reedy-sounding flutes and brassy horns. The King’s scarlet-cloaked guards ringed the edges of the room.   
  
Feeling as twitchy as a cricket in a fireplace, Tigôn watched the colorful Umbarians and all of the King’s retinue file in through the main doorway.  Nibanuzîr, the King’s head of household, had placed him near one of the side doors at the front of the room, for which he was grateful, as he had a close but unobtrusive view of the proceedings.  He had dressed in his good uniform, grey hose and a fitted tunic of fine wool dyed a deep blue and embroidered on the breast with silver wings proclaiming his status as a messenger. He’d tied his unruly hair back with a cord, noting that it was getting long.  He was so worried about Sûla’s upcoming trial that he could barely stand still. If he were taking odds on the trial’s outcome, he would bet they wouldn’t favor either him or his friend.  His lover, he thought. Yes, his lover, and hopefully no one other than Lord Elendil would ever know that.  
  
The King’s three other pages, Kuphîr, Zanar, and Darîkil, hovered by the raised platform that held the Regent’s chair at the end of the Hall, waiting to be of service. Darîkil’s laughter at some jest had brought out the dimple in his cheek.  He caught Tigôn’s eye and made a face, pointing behind his hand at a monstrous hat that some Umbarian wool merchant was wearing. Tigôn ignored him. He heartily wished this whole affair were well over.  Last night after he left Sûla’s prison cell, he’d had an idea of something he could do if things went badly at the trial, a final throw of the bone dice.  He hoped it would not come to that.    
  
Aznat, the King’s herald, thumped his staff vigorously on the floor and waited for the noise to settle.  He nodded at Tigôn, who opened the side door.  To the blast of horns and the ominous beat of the great drums, the King’s Counselors entered the room, parading past Tigôn. Among them were the Lords Aphanuzîr, Nimruzîr, Rothîbal, Izindor, and Ikar-lak, head of the Bawîba Manô priesthood, startling as always in his eagle beak headdress. Nimruzîr, who Tigôn thought of as Lord Elendil, gave him a reassuring nod as he went by. The Counselors climbed the six steps of the dais and arranged themselves behind tables draped in scarlet linen on either side of the Regent’s great chair. Aglahad the scribe, handsome in green velvet, stood by a small table at the foot of the dais, a scroll of linen and quills and ink ready to hand. The King’s Steward, Lord Azgarad entered, sharp-eyed, gaunt, and imposing, dressed in his blue and silver robes.  He too climbed the steps and stood by a chair to the right of the throne.   
  
Tigôn recognized members of the Counselors’ households standing at the front of the crowd.  Among them, he noticed Izindor’s son, Mirandor, who looked like a toad with those strange eyes that flicked nervously back and forth in opposite directions. Tigôn frowned as he remembered what Sûla had said about him. Pervert! Could Mirandor have killed his own brother?  It didn’t seem likely.  From what he’d seen of Lord Izindor’s second son, he didn’t have enough independent thought to have killed so much as a louse. But someone had done it.  He sincerely hoped Sûla was telling him the truth. Tigôn’s gut knotted again.   
  
An audible gasp rippled through the crowd, like wind in a wheat field, and Tigôn turned his head to look as the Lord Annatar arrived through the main entrance and came striding towards the dais.  And it was no wonder people gasped for he was breathtaking in his elvish beauty and grace. The glowing red eyes Tigôn had seen the day before were gone.  Instead, Annatar’s glance had returned to the serene self-confidence of a panther watching his domain. He was dressed much as he had been when he was first captured. His fiery red hair fell like a silken cloak about his shoulders and was pulled back from his face by many small braids forming a cap on his head and revealing ears tapering to delicate points.  He was garbed in black armor: a sable breast plate over a short chain mail kilt, bracers on his arms, tall boots, and fingerless black leather gloves.  A circlet of rubies rested on his brow. Beautiful and deadly. He appeared like an elvish warrior of old, perhaps even Maedhros himself, readied for one of the endless battles of the First Age that Tigôn remembered reading about as a child.    
  
Looking at the admiring stares, Tigôn bethought himself and shut his open mouth. He sincerely hoped Annatar would prove to be the ally he had promised to be. Maybe Tigôn had sold his soul when he visited the sorcerer that morning and begged for his help. But to save Sûla, it was worth it.   
  
Annatar ascended the steps of the dais to take a place at the Counselor’s table.  He noticed Azgarad, Amandil, and Elendil exchanging looks.  Already, he’s become one of them, Tigôn thought.  How had he managed that?  
  
Last to enter was the King, splendid in his winged crown, bedecked in gold and robed in crimson, his spotted lion skin about his shoulders.  As magnificent as he was, Tigôn thought that Ar-Pharazôn the Golden was no match for Annatar the Dark Sorcerer.   
  
“All bow to the Great King of Númenor, Lord of Umbar, and Surrounding Provinces!” cried Aznat, the herald.    
     
There was a sweeping motion as everyone bowed low. Ar-Pharazôn inclined his head towards the spectators and his Counselors, then turned and seated himself on the Regent’s throne, arranging the lion skin artfully about his shoulders.  This was as much a show for the Umbarians about who their rightful ruler was, as a trial of their Regent. Tigôn realized that, to most of the people there, the trial of a zirâmîki for the murder of one of their Númenórean overlords was a secondary matter. No doubt, the exception to this was the grim-faced Lord Izindor, father of the murdered man.     
  
There was rustling, thumping, and sighing as the Counselors, members of the court, and wealthy merchants and land-owners of Umbar took their seats. The rest of the crowd remained standing in the back.   
  
Through the side door where Tigôn stood, several guards appeared with Lord Rabêlozar and marched him out before the King. The Regent bowed low with a jingle of chains. His jowly face looked grey and drawn, the skin loose as if he’d lost weight overnight.     
  
The King’s herald announced, “Hear all ye Peoples of Umbar.  We are gathered to hear evidence so that the Great Ar-Pharazôn can render judgement in the case of Rabêlozar, Regent of Umbar, accused of misappropriating taxes rightfully belonging to Númenor and using them to build a temple to the god Zizzûn, as well as to enrich himself.  He is also accused of ordering the hanging of a chief witness of these crimes, his exchequer, Ephalak, and further ordering the execution of the two prison guards who carried out the deed.”   
             
“What say you to these charges, Rabêlozar?” Lord Azgarad asked in a strident voice.  
  
Rabêlozar mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “My Lord King.  I am innocent.  There is no proof . . .”    
  
There was whispering among the Umbarians. Ar-Pharazôn raised his hand for silence.   
  
“I gather you’ve studied my exchequer’s books,” Rabêlozar continued. “So you’ve seen for yourself that the money for the temple came from gifts and booty seized from the Haradrim. I deemed it important to build a temple to Zizzûn because the people believe in his power.”  
  
“It is blasphemy!” Ikar-lak raged, “to build a temple to any god but Eru and a shrine to any but the Valar.” His face, or what one could see of it from within the recesses of his mask, appeared bright red.   
  
Rabêlozar seemed to shrink into himself.  “I was under pressure from the local priests,” he replied softly.  “You don’t know what it’s like trying to keep peace with all the factions here.”  
  
“You should have consulted with me before undertaking such a project,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  
  
“My Lord King.  You were far away across the sea,” Rabêlozar replied, with a hint of pique. “How am I to know your every wish?”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn gave him a withering look.  “Surely you knew that diverting revenue meant for the crown would not be viewed favorably.  My couriers come twice a year.  You had ample opportunity to send a missive along with Umbar’s tribute. Lord Azgarad, what did your study of the records reveal?”  
  
Lord Azgarad walked to a pile of ledgers sitting on the table in front of Aglahad the scribe.   He picked up one of them, filled with slender pieces of parchment marking places, and opened it.  
  
Engrossed in the spectacle, Tigôn hardly noticed that Nibanuzîr had approached until he felt a tap on his shoulder. The head of household said in a low voice, “I suspect this won’t take long. Go have the guards bring up the zirâmîki, Sûla.”  
  
*************  
Tigôn found Sûla coming along the hallway from the prisons in the tow of five Red Cloak guards. His hands were shackled in front of him, and on each side, a guard had locked an arm about his elbow. Two guards followed behind and the captain of the King’s guard, Hazûn, led the procession.   
  
Sûla marched submissively along, eyes downcast, looking pale and frightened.  He was dressed as Tigôn had last seen him, in Tigôn’s green cape and cream-colored jacket over his loose black dancing trousers, and the heavy boots that looked too big for him. Even though Sûla’s expression was grim, his dark locks unkempt, and his jewels and face paint gone, he was still the loveliest man Tigôn had ever seen. His exotic eyes with their long, dark lashes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, Tigôn saw a spark within them, a yearning vulnerability, before they were shuttered again.  
  
“You are ordered to take the prisoner to the side door of the Great Hall,” Tigôn said to Hazûn.  
  
“I know,” Hazûn said, waving dismissively at him.  
  
Tigôn fell in step with them.  “How is the prisoner faring?” he asked.  
  
“Well enough, considering,” Hazûn said.   
  
“You can talk to me directly,” Sûla said, “I haven’t lost my tongue – yet.”  
  
“If I were you, I’d shut that pretty mouth and keep it shut,” said a guard who Tigôn knew as Hozdûnik.  He’d been one of the most zealous in undressing and searching him when he’d visited Sûla the night before.  
  
“He has done you no harm,” Tigôn said.  “So, pray keep a civil tongue or I might let a report slip to the King.”  
  
Hozdûnik grumbled something.   
  
“Did you know, Sûla,” Tigôn said conversationally, “I took a message to Lord Annatar this morning.  He said the King has commanded him to serve as a Truthsayer at your trial.”  
  
Sûla nodded slightly.  “Good, I’m not afraid of the truth,” he said.  
  
“Better watch he doesn’t ream out your innards with his sorcery,” Hozdûnik said.  
  
“Must you always be so unpleasant, Hozdûnik?” Hazûn snarled. “Shut up, all of you.”  
  
While they walked back to the Great Hall, Tigôn watched Sûla out of the corner of his eye. It was torture to be so near him and have to pretend there was nothing between them. He longed to take him in his arms, to hold and kiss him, to assure him that all would be well.  But then saying that would not make it so.  He bit his lip.  
  
“Stay here and I’ll see what is happening,” Tigôn said.  He opened one of the doors quietly and slipped inside.  The room was silent. All the faces in the crowd were staring towards the front of the room, expectant.  Rabêlozar was on his knees before the King, looking like a fat melted candle, his face white as wax.     
                      
Ar-Pharazôn raised a hand holding the sceptre of his office.  “I have heard the evidence and here then is my judgement. Lord Rabêlozar, you are hereby condemned for crimes against the Realm of Númenor and its subject lands of Umbar. In punishment, you shall hang by the neck until dead.  The sentence shall take place at sunrise tomorrow.  Make peace with Eru or Zizzûn or whatever gods you worship. Perhaps Zizzûn will be pleased enough by his new temple to offer you solace.”     
“No! It’s not what it appears,” Rabêlozar howled. “It’s a trick!  The Zigûr is showing you lies!” The hysterical sound of his voice cut into Tigôn. Although he could muster little sympathy for the odious man, the death sentence made his heart race.  Doubt wormed into him.  Could Annatar manipulate the truth?  Were he and Sûla fools to trust him?   
  
“The King has spoken. Take him back to his cell,” Lord Azgarad said.   
  
The herald thumped his staff.  The crowd stirred and began to buzz as the guards half-dragged the struggling Regent past Tigôn and out of the door.  
  
Sûla was next.   
  
*********  
  
Sûla’s wrists hurt from the shackles and he felt dirty and disheveled, not the way he wanted to appear before anyone, least of all the King and all his court. He hated how closely the guards held him, so that he could barely move. Sikhulzin smelled like sour wine and Hozdûnik seemed to find every opportunity to put his hands on him.  By Zizzûn, Sûla longed to be alone with him so he could use his magic to exact revenge.  An angry squirrel in the trousers would be very good for Hozdûnik.   
  
Tigôn opened the door and stuck in his head. “Sûla, you are up now,” he called softly.  His face was tense, his brows knit with concern.  Sûla wondered if this would be the last time he’d see him.  
  
Clenching his jaw, Sûla straightened up, just before the guards jerked him forward, making him stumble. “Stop! I can walk on my own,” he declared. “Give me that much dignity.”    
  
Hazûn turned to eye him, then nodded.  The guards relaxed their grip.   
  
As Sûla passed, Tigon whispered, “Courage, Sûla. You know you are innocent. May Mandos, the Doomsman, be merciful.”  
  
“I have said my prayers to Zizzûn, god of fate,” Sûla said. “He is throwing the dice now.”  
  
“Sûla, my friend . . . ,” Tigôn said.  That was all Sûla heard before the guards had marched him through the door and out in front of the seething, noisy crowd.  He heard scattered cries of,  “There he is! The murderer! Hang him!”  
  
They know nothing of the truth, Sûla thought, and yet they howl for my blood like a pack of hounds.    
  
The guards led him to a spot in front of the King, who sat stern-faced on the great gilded chair several feet above him, ready to pronounce his doom.  How could this be the man Sûla had slept with just two nights ago and knew so very intimately? On either side of him sat his Counselors behind a table covered with a cloth red as blood.  He met Lord Nimruzîr’s eyes and found in them a solemn mercy, while his father, Aphanuzîr, looked troubled.  Balancing that, on the other side, his enemy Lord Izindor stared at him with a rage bordering on lust. Lord Annatar stood at the foot of the dais, not too far away, impressive and fearsome in his black armor, watching him with those calculating eyes. Almost imperceptibly, he winked.  
  
Encouraged, Sûla realized he must play to the King.  He crumpled to the floor in a swift and graceful obeisance. Looking up through his eyelashes, he caught the King’s eye, and bit his lip gently in a way he knew Ar-Pharazôn could not resist.  The King rubbed a hand uncomfortably along his face.  So, perhaps he hasn’t yet made up his mind, Sûla thought.   
  
Lord Azgarad signaled the herald to thump his staff for silence.  “Read the charges,” the steward said in a gruff voice.  
  
Aznat cleared his throat, then addressed the King and Council, holding his arms wide and partially turning so the audience could hear him. “My Lord the Most Worthy Ar-Pharazôn, his Steward Azgarad, Counselors, Men of Númenor and Umbar – the King’s cupbearer Sûla of Brûni is charged with the murder of Lord Dulginzin of Arandor.  He is further charged with fleeing from his master’s bond, and stealing Lord Dulginzin’s property, to wit, a cloak, boots, and a knife.  The penalty for a slave committing such crimes is evisceration prior to hanging.”  
  
A tremor wracked Sûla’s whole body. He set his knuckles against his mouth to stop his teeth from chattering, and then felt a strange whispering along the floor.  Turning his head, he noticed a series of symbols within a circle chalked on the tile a few steps away. Had that been the Regent’s downfall?  
  
“Thank you, Aznat,” Ar-Pharazôn growled. Then, more gently, he said, “How do you plead, Sûla?”  
  
Sûla pushed himself upright and brought his legs underneath him.  “My Lord King,” he cried, “I am innocent of this crime. Have I not always served you well and faithfully and done your every bidding? Does it make sense that I would kill a lord you sent me to entertain?”  
                         
“Then why did you run?” The King said. “Why didn’t you come to me?”  
  
“A slave discovers a lord newly killed,” Sûla said, softly. “A lord he was ordered to spend the night with. I feared I was already condemned.  Am I, my Lord?”  Sûla glanced sidelong at Annatar, whose mouth rose slightly at the corners.     
  
“We will hear the facts and render impartial judgement,” Ar-Pharazôn said.   He nodded at Lord Azgarad. “Proceed.”  
                             
“I call upon Izindor, Lord of Arandor,” Azgarad intoned.   
  
Izindor took the steps down from the dais and stood before the King, giving him his usual wriggling, eel-like bow.  He looked haggard, his cheeks unshaven, eyes hard. His thinning blond hair hung lank over his forehead. “My Lord King, many of us here witnessed you order your zirâmîki to entertain my son after the banquet two nights hence. My other son, Mirandor, and Dulginzin’s servant, Pâroth, are both here to attest that this one,” he turned and pointed at Sûla, “appeared in my son’s chambers that evening and that he accompanied my son into his room to spend the night.  In the morning when Pâroth returned to attend to his lord, Dulginzin was lying abed with his throat cut ear to ear. The zirâmîki had fled, taking my son’s property, which was found on him when he was captured yesterday in Umbar.  There is no other conclusion that can be drawn but that Sûla is the murderer.  We should waste no further time with this.  He must hang.”  
  
Sûla threw himself back down to the floor.     
  
“I witnessed the scene myself yesterday morning,” Lord Azgarad said. “I also questioned Mirandor and the manservant Pâroth and they both confirmed events as Lord Izindor has stated them.  I concur with his assessment.”      
  
Annatar stirred. “As I’m sure you know my dear Azgarad, things are not always what they seem,” he said in a silky voice. “Ar-Pharazôn, I recommend that all witnesses should tell us what they saw, in their own words, before judgement is rendered.”   
  
Sûla heard someone choke behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Dulginzin’s odious younger brother, Mirandor, sitting among members of Izindor’s household. He was muttering something and rocking his body back and forth, but stopped when his father glared at him.  At that moment, Sûla would have wagered his golden dragon, if he still had it, that Mirandor was the culprit.  
  
“By your leave?” Annatar addressed the King, who nodded.  The Zigûr strode from where he was standing by the King’s scribe to the front of the room. Izindor’s face twisted, but he quickly stepped back from him. “The accused must stand within the Truthsayer’s circle,” Annatar said, pointing dramatically at the chalked outline on the floor.  
  
Sûla felt a tiny pricking of gooseflesh all over his body. Sorcery.  He could feel it calling like a chill wind to the back of the neck, as surely as when he’d cast the freezing spell.  Slowly, he rose to his feet, took three steps, and stood on the circle.  Instantly the feeling of black magic slithered up his body, holding him in its thrall.  Sûla repeated to himself: Tigôn said he visited the Zigûr this morning and he promised he would help.  The whispered words of the dream came back to him.  Whatever the price, Annatar, I’ll pay it, he thought.  
  
The King leaned down and said quietly, “Sûla, you must tell your side of the story, now.  The Truthsayer will be able to show us if you are lying.  Believe me, I would like nothing more than to know that you are innocent.”  
  
That brought Sûla a glimmer of hope.  Maybe he won’t condemn me after all, he thought. Maybe Tigôn is right.  He glanced over at his friend and for a moment, their eyes met. Would the visions show what they had done that night? Sûla thought he might be sick.  
  
Annatar pressed his hands against Sûla’s temples and held them there as he chanted a series of words.  Several people in the audience cried out as if in pain.  Sûla could feel a strange roiling in his belly that traveled upward and manifested like lightning in his head.  A terrible bright flame engulfed his vision.    
  
Sûla cried out. “It burns, my Lord!”  
  
“Hold still and empty your thoughts,” Annatar said.  “Think about what happened as you answer Lord Azgarad’s questions.”  Sûla nodded.  Annatar kept a hand on Sûla’s head as he turned to the King. “He will tell the truth,” he said.  
  
“Tell us what happened that night?” Lord Azgarad said.   
  
“What happened that night,” Sûla repeated. He paused for a moment and then the images gathered in his thoughts. “As my Lord King commanded, I went to Lord Dulginzin’s rooms.” He looked at Izindor. “He and his brother were there waiting for me.”  
  
There was a shimmering, like a giant curtain of light that Sûla had heard sometimes appears in the northern skies.  It spread across the space between the dais and where Sûla stood next to Annatar.  
  
An image appeared of Dulginzin sitting slumped in his chair, with his pelt of dark hair on his bare chest.  Mirandor lay on the floor playing a clay flute and Pâroth held a wine cup.  The images were translucent, so that Sûla could vaguely see the King and the Counselors through them.   
  
“He nearly choked me to death forcing me to drink wine,” Sûla said.  The images rose up raw and ugly of Dulginzin holding him while Pâroth poured wine down his throat. A sound of retching, gasping, and then his terrible racking cough. A puddle of wine on the tile floor.  He was lapping it up, his tongue rasping on the tiles.  Sûla could barely look.  
  
“Then, he made me dance naked.”  The room whirled about and the musicians could be seen beating on their drums. The look of lust on Dulginzin’s face was palpable.  “And after he bade me go with him into his bedroom, where he used me as it pleased him.”  He could feel Annatar’s hand heavy on his head and a whispering in his ears.  It seemed as if the sorcerer were examining Sûla’s thoughts and selecting the ones he wished to show.  A new one flickered up showing Dulginzin at Sûla’s side, grasping him behind the neck, and shoving him so that he stumbled towards the open door of the bed chamber, holding his clothes in his arms.  
    
Annatar removed his hand from Sûla’s head and the image disappeared as swiftly as blowing out a lamp.   
  
“I think, Ar-Pharazôn,” Annatar said, with a hint of amusement in his voice, “we could dispense with viewing the inevitable outcome of that command.”    
  
The King’s nodded. “Agreed.”  
  
Izindor turned to Sûla. “When did you kill my son?”             
  
“I told you, my Lord, I did not kill him,” Sûla replied.   
  
“Well, then who did?” Izindor cried angrily.  “Some demon of the air?”  
  
“For all I know it might have been,” Sûla retorted.  He stared hard at Lord Izindor. _You know, you bastard, what your son tried to do to me in the encampment and how you bought my silence._  
  
“If you didn’t do it, you must know who did,” Azgarad asked. “Weren’t you with him all night?”  
  
Here it comes, Sûla thought.  He glanced at Lord Annatar who was watching him impassively. “My Lord,” Sûla looked at the chalked symbols between his boots. “No, I was not.”    
  
There was a sudden flurry of whispers behind him that hissed in his ears.  
   
“Where were you?” Azgarad asked sharply.  
  
Sûla hesitated.  “I left.  After Lord Dulginzin fell asleep, I . . . , my Lords.”  He hung his head. “I could not bear it any longer, after what he had done to me.  I went out over his balcony. . . for a walk.”   
  
“For a walk, in the cold?” Izindor cried.  
  
“Not exactly,” Annatar said with a creamy smile. “Here is where you must tell the truth, Sûla, for truth is the only thing my magic can show.”   
  
An image appeared of Sûla’s hands wearing many rings climbing up over a balcony railing. He knocked on a door, and then crouched down, rubbing his arms, his breath blowing like faint smoke in the moonlight.   
  
“I went to see a friend,” Sûla said.  
  
“A friend?” Ar-Pharazôn demanded incredulously. “Who?”   
  
“Does it matter?” Sûla replied.  “I was gone from Lord Dulginzin’s bedchamber. ‘Tis the truth. You have seen it.”  
  
“It matters,” Ar-Pharazôn growled.  “We have to verify your story. Who did you go to see, Sûla?”  
  
“Force it out of him,” Lord Izindor hissed.  
  
Sûla hesitated, biting his lip.  He looked at the floor, then at the row of Counselors sitting before him, and last at the King.  “It was nothing,” he said. “But I don’t want to get him into trouble.”  
  
“You’ll answer,” Ar-Pharazôn said grimly, “or I’ll have Lord Annatar take it out of you.  You didn’t see what happened when he did it to Rabêlozar.  I assure you, it’s better not to resist.”  
  
**********  
  
From his spot near the door, Tigôn could feel the knot of fear in his stomach opening up into a flood of terror so profound that he thought he might puke, and yet he knew, he knew what he must do.  He took a step forward and called out, “I beg pardon, my Lords!”  
  
He saw the heads turning towards him, the astonished eyes, heard the soft buzz of whispers. Tigôn felt blood rush into his face.  “He came to see me.”    
  
Annatar’s chin lifted. He looked startled and displeased, as if this was an unexpected development. The King’s lips thinned into a line.  Amandil and Elendil looked at each other and Elendil shook his head, ever so slightly. But Sûla’s expression softened as he glanced up at Tigôn and then back at the floor.   
  
“You, Tigôn?” Ar-Pharazôn growled. “He came to see you? Why?”  
  
“We’re friends, my Lord,” Tigôn said, his voice high and tremulous. “We’ve sometimes played at bones in your vestibule at night while awaiting an assignment.  I know you saw us at it. This time he came to be consoled after. . .” his voice became angry, “after Lord Dulginzin hurt him.”  
  
“How long was he with you?” Lord Azgarad said.  
  
“I, I’m not sure,” Tigôn said.  “Half the night.  He came near midnight and left at dawn.”  
  
“You were playing at bones all through the night?” Ar-Pharazôn asked in a menacing tone.  
  
Tigôn felt his cheeks becoming even hotter. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth.  
  
“We were talking, my Lord,” Sûla said.   
  
Annatar glanced at the King.   
  
“Show me, Annatar,” Ar-Pharazôn commanded.   
  
“My Lord,” Elendil spoke up from his seat on the dais. “Is it not sufficient that they’ve admitted they were together?”  
  
“No,” Ar-Pharazôn replied.  “Show me!”  
  
Annatar raised an eyebrow at Tigôn as much as if to say, I told you what would happen.  Sûla gave him a pleading look.  Annatar ignored him and once again, set his hand on Sûla’s head.  
  
Tigôn saw an image of himself crouching by his fireplace, pouring heated wine into a cup and then offering it to Sûla.  He thought he looked young and infatuated.  They sat down together, lips moving.  Then he heard Sûla say, “I’m drawn to you, King’s messenger, despite my better judgement,” and he put a hand on Tigôn’s bare knee.  
  
“I too,” Tigôn whispered. “And I know that it is a bad thing, very likely to get us both in trouble. Mandos! Your hands are freezing!”  He took Sûla’s hands between his own, rubbing them vigorously.  
  
“Yes, you are trouble for me too,” Sûla said. “You must not tell the King I came here tonight.”  
  
The images shifted again.  They were in bed. Sûla was tugging off Tigôn’s shirt, while Tigôn wriggled and laughed. Once Sûla peeled it off, he scanned down Tigôn’s nude body, past the puckered nipples and the small mole near his belly.  The gaze lingered on his obvious arousal, then rose to see Tigôn looking coyly back at him. His eyelids lowered, his lips parted, and his chest rose and fell quickly, in a way that left no doubt as to how he was feeling.  
  
It was so strange to see himself as Sûla must have seen him. He could see his face, soft with love and longing. For the first time, Tigôn could see for himself the magic that throbbed between them.  “No! No more!” he whispered.  
  
Then there was a rapid succession of images: Tigôn lowering his mouth to Sûla’s belly, his blond head moving up and down;  Sûla’s hand with its many rings caressing Tigôn’s hair;  Sûla’s moans of pleasure; Tigôn sliding out of bed, his nude body padding across the room, bending and pulling a flask from his pack, returning and setting it by the bed, climbing back under the furs;  Sûla pouring oil into his hands; Tigôn rocking back and forth, chest muscles flexing. He threw his head back, eyes closed, face alive with ecstasy.      
  
Tigôn looked around at people in the crowd witnessing his most precious and intimate moments, with varied reactions: shock, revulsion, amusement, and lust. There was Darîkil, mouth open in astonishment. Then he glanced at Tigôn with a look of disgust. Why was Annatar showing all this?  Curse him, he’d promised to help them! Tigôn’s cheeks burned with mortification. He wanted to disappear right through the floor or go up in a puff of smoke. At least the images were blurred and moving rapidly. Annatar wasn’t lingering on any particular one.  
  
“I think that’s sufficient for us to get the idea,” Amandil’s gruff captain’s voice rang out loudly. “This is a trial not a pleasure garden.”   
  
“I definitely agree,” Ikar-lak said. “Stop it, Lord Annatar.”  
  
“Have you seen enough, Ar-Pharazôn?” Annatar asked.  
  
The King was staring intently at the images shimmering in the air before him. He passed a hand over his mouth, shifted in his chair, and then turned red. “Yes, quite enough,” he said, angrily. The images dissolved.  “So,” he said, “you two are lovers.  How dare members of my court behave in such a lewd manner! Come here and stand before me, Tigôn.”  
  
Tigôn didn’t know how he made his legs move.  He crossed the space between the crowd and the base of the dais and then sank to his knees next to Sûla, who was still standing in the circle. “Forgive me, my Lord,” he said looking pleadingly at the King.  “It was only that one night.  He came for solace from a friend. Neither of us meant for it to happen.”  
  
Izindor snorted.  “So, he spent the night carousing and then went back and killed my son.  This shows what kind of despicable beast he is.  He should be castrated and then hanged.”  
  
Tigôn stared at him, too shocked to respond.  
  
“What did you do after you left Tigôn’s room, Sûla?” Elendil asked.  
  
“You know what really happened, Lord Annatar.  Show them the rest of it,” Sûla said bitterly.   
  
The images appeared again. Sûla entered the bedroom from the door off the balcony and approached the bed where a long, still form lay under the blankets, one bare shoulder exposed.  Sûla’s slender bejeweled hand pulled on the shoulder and the head lolled, revealing his deadly wound, and the sheets dark with blood. Sûla gasped in surprise, then sank to the floor, rocking back and forth. Rising, he went to the bedroom door which was half-open, and looked into the outer room. A quick scan revealed chairs, wine cups on a table, a dying fire. No one was there. He returned, hastily pulled on a pair of boots, opened the wardrobe, removed the cloak and threw it over his shoulders, then he buckled a knife belt about his waist, before vaulting over the balcony.  The image faded.  
  
The Great Hall came alive with murmuring voices.    
  
“When I got there, he had been freshly killed, my Lord King,” Sûla said above the noise,  “as you saw for yourself. I thought, being a slave, no one would believe that I hadn’t done it.  So, I ran.  It was foolish, but I was afraid. And that is the truth of the matter.  I have made terrible errors, I know, but I killed no one.  If ever my service has pleased you, my King, have mercy on me.” He threw himself to the floor again.  
  
“Well, if it wasn’t you, who was it?” Azgarad said in surprise. “He didn’t cut his own damned throat!”  
  
Annatar cocked his head. “May I suggest that we question those who found him.  Lord Izindor, you said it was your other son, Mirandor, and the servant?”  
  
Izindor nodded. “Mirandor,” he bellowed.  “Get up here.”  
  
The strange young man stood, weaving back and forth.  “Yes, F-father.”   
  
“Move out of the way, Sûla,” Annatar said.  “And stand over there.”  Then, with a predatory swiftness, Annatar strode to Mirandor and seized him by the neck.    
  
“N-n-o, the Z-z-Zigûr, he’ll h-hurt me,” Mirandor wailed, raising his hands as if expecting a blow. “I d-did not k-kill . . .”  
  
“Spit it out, boy,” Izindor growled.  
  
“That zirâmîki, that b-boy,” Mirandor said, “he’s a w-witch.  He d-did something to m-me.”   
  
“Come with me,” Annatar said in a commanding voice.  He steered Mirandor over to stand in the circle, where he stood facing the King, panting and rolling his eyes in terror.   
  
“Mirandor,” Lord Azgarad said, “You already told me you found him dead that morning.  Is there more to your story?”  
  
Spluttering incomprehensibly, Mirandor turned and searched the crowd, as if looking for someone.  Then he crouched low and began rocking, hugging himself.  
  
Lord Azgarad rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Annatar, can you show us what he saw?”  
  
Annatar bent over and grasped Mirandor’s head between his hands, none too gently.  The man screamed, a high pitched maddening sound.  Tigôn covered his ears.   
  
The images came shimmering forth.   
  
The door of a wardrobe cracked open, revealing a long, narrow sliver of the room.  Lord Dulginzin lay on the bed, chest rising and falling under blankets. He was snoring loudly.  Across the room, the bed chamber door opened and lamplight filtering in from the other room brightened the scene.  The shadowy form of the servant Pâroth passed by Mirandor’s hiding place, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl, towels, and a gleaming straight razor. Pâroth set the tray down on a table.  “My Lord,” he called softly, shaking Dulginzin’s shoulder. “My Lord. Time for your shave.”  The note of snoring changed as Dulginzin turned over.  “Still drunk, you bastard?” Pâroth growled.  He looked furtively around the room. “Where is the zirâmîki?  Gone?”  He chuckled, went out of sight for a moment, then returned.  He reached for the razor on the tray, bent back over Dulginzin, and made a sudden movement with his arm.  The snoring ceased and there was an ugly gurgling noise.  
  
Mirandor choked. Pâroth raised his head and looked right at him.  He strode over to the wardrobe and pulled the door open with a pop. “Mirandor! What are you doing here?”  
  
“N-nothing.  I’ve done nothing.”  
  
“Where is the zirâmîki?”  
  
“H-he’s not here?”  
  
“No,” Pâroth replied. “He must have run off when his Lordship fell asleep.  He is dead drunk, again. We had better leave him be until morning.”  
  
“What d-did you do to him?”   
  
“Nothing.  Let’s go.”  The servant grabbed Mirandor by the arm, jerking him out of the wardrobe.    
  
“D-don’t you d-dare touch me!” Mirandor cried.  He pulled away, then ran over to the bed and bent over his brother.  Blood pumped from a deep gash across his throat. “You!” Mirandor said, turning. Then he began laughing in a hysterical high-pitched tone.  “Dulgi, Dulgi, look’ee, he can’t t-touch me,” he mocked dancing about the bed and then poking at the body.  
  
“Silence, you idiot!” Pâroth said. He waved the razor still in his hand. “If you ever breathe a word, I’ll slice your nuts off. I swear this!”   
  
Tigôn tore his eyes away from the images and looked over his shoulder at the staring eyes of the audience.  There was a flurry of motion and a small, muscular man charged past him and crashed into Lord Izindor.  Wrapping an arm about Izindor’s chest, the man pressed a long knife to his throat. Izindor waved his arms about like an octopus. It was the servant, Pâroth.     
         
Several people in the audience screamed.  
   
“What presumption! Let him go,” Ar-Pharazôn roared.  “Guards!”  
  
“Stay back, or I’ll kill him,” Pâroth said.   
  
“Do as he says,” Izindor grunted.  
  
“Hear me, O great King, ye fine Lords of Númenor, and people of Umbar,” Pâroth cried. “Indeed, you have seen the truth.  I killed ‘im, who was my lord and master, but I done it for good cause. He were a vicious brute, undeserving of the title ‘Lord.’ He raped my sister and tortured me whene’er he liked, with Lord Izindor’s full knowledge. Two nights ago, he made me choke this beautiful young dancer with wine, and made him lick it from the floor like a dog, while my lord laughed and beat him.  Is this the great and wise Númenor founded by Tar-Minyatur, that allows their lords to treat bondsmen in such manner? He deserved a death one thousand times worse than what I gave him!”  
  
“Let him go, Pâroth,” Azgarad said, slowly advancing, with his hands held out.  “It will only be  worse for you if you kill him.”  
  
“I’m a dead man, anyhow,” Pâroth hissed.  He took a step towards the side door where Tigôn was standing, then another, dragging the hapless Izindor with him.  “I’ll be takin’ my leave now,” Pâroth said, “with his Lordship as my safe-passage. If you think that I’ll be slow to kill him, you’re bloody well mistaken.”   
  
There was a deafening high-pitched scream of some fell beast and a huge black dragon materialized in front of Pâroth. Giant ribbed wings unfurled and spread out across the room.  
  
All around Tigôn heard cries of terror and many in the crowd surged for the doors. Tigôn stood up in alarm, and pressed up against a trembling Sûla, grabbing his elbow.   
  
Pâroth dropped the knife with a clatter and fell to the floor, clutching his throat and gasping for air with a strange sucking sound, while Izindor rapidly crawled away.  The dragon dissolved and Annatar, grown to tremendous size, stood over the shaking servant. “Yield,” he cried in a dreadful voice that caused Tigôn to clap his hands over his ears.   
  
Wailing, Pâroth folded up on himself as if he were a wounded spider. Four red-cloaked guards rushed in.  Two of them grabbed the man, pulled him upright, and wrenched his arms behind his back.  He writhed and kicked as they hauled him from the Great Hall.  
  
There was a dead silence as four hundred sets of lungs sucked in a gulp of air. Tigôn quickly moved away from Sûla and looked around at shocked faces. Then he heard a voice say, “It was a vision.  No need to fear. The dragon wasn’t real.  Just an image, like all the others.” And soon those words were being echoed around the room.  Sûla’s expression was dazed, as if coming out of a dream. Izindor scrambled to his feet and fell into a chair, breathing hard.   
  
Annatar was the only one who seemed serene and calm. He shrank back to his normal size and bowed before the King. “And now, my Lord King, you have the truth of this matter,” he said.  
  
For a long moment, no one moved.  Then Ar-Pharazôn rose from his chair and began to clap.  With a pattering sound like the beginning of a rainstorm, others joined in, one, three, ten, until everyone was clapping and cheering. There were cries of “The Zigûr!” and “Truthsayer!”  
  
Annatar bowed again, with a faint quirk of his sumptuous mouth.   
  
Ar-Pharazôn raised his hands for quiet. “Thank you for your service, Lord Annatar, in discovering the truth of these strange events. We are most grateful.  And now I am ready to pronounce judgement. Lord Izindor, your servant, Pâroth, has admitted to killing your son, and will be hanged by the neck until dead alongside the Regent tomorrow morning. Will that satisfy you?”  
  
Izindor said, “I claim the right of vengeance before he’s hanged.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn frowned, but then he nodded.  He turned to Sûla, who immediately threw himself back upon the floor.  “Sûla, you have been found innocent of the crime of murder.”  He paused and Sûla looked up warily.  “However,” the King continued, “you are guilty of consorting with my messenger Tigôn, stealing from Lord Dulginzin, and attempting to flee your bond of service. And for those transgressions, slave, you are sentenced to fifty lashes.”  
  
Sûla’s face blanched.  He bowed his head and said nothing.  
  
“As for you, messenger,” the King said, “you are dismissed from my service.”  
  
The earth seemed to be sliding under Tigôn’s feet.  He thought he might faint.  It could have been worse, he told himself, much worse, but losing his position and fifty lashes for Sûla!  What a price for loving someone!  He didn’t know where he found the courage for what he did next.  He approached the King again and went down on his knees, next to where Sûla lay on the floor. “My Lord King, may I speak?”  
  
“You may,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  He shifted back in the chair, cradling his chin in his hand.  
  
“Sire, for the service of taking the message to the Umbarian camp, you granted me a boon and I should like to ask for it now.  If you please, I wish to ask that Sûla be spared the whipping.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn frowned. He glanced at his Counselors.   
  
“Unacceptable. You must maintain discipline, my Lord,” Lord Izindor thundered.  
  
Lord Amandil rose and bowed. “It reflects well upon you, my King, to show mercy to your servants who, aside from this lapse of misplaced affection, have been loyal, hard-working, and dutiful. I counsel that you should honor your bargain and grant the lad’s request.”   
  
“Let it not be said that I do not appreciate your past service, Tigôn,” the King said. “Nor that your plea has not moved me.”  Tigôn looked up at him and was unnerved at the hungry expression he saw on the King’s face. “But there must be consequences for disobedience. Therefore,  I shall halve his punishment and give his other half to you.  Both of you shall receive twenty-five lashes.  Be grateful, for it is a light sentence.”  
  
Lord Elendil stood.  “If it please your Majesty.”  
  
“What now?” Ar-Pharazôn said.   
  
“You also granted me a boon,” Elendil said, “for holding the line against the Haradrim at Arzog’s Pass, and that boon I now claim. Tigôn, the son of my friendAzrazirân of Eldalondë, has served you faithfully and well.  He stood up for the truth, even though it has cost him dear. In my opinion, these facts should mitigate his transgression. Therefore, I ask that his service be transferred to my household, and the flogging be commuted for both of these young men.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn eyed him unhappily. He glanced at Annatar, then down at Sûla and Tigôn.  “Sûla is my slave,” he growled.  “He knows the penalty for disobedience.  A slave cannot be allowed liberties.”  He paused, pulling on his chin. “Very well.”  He stood and directed his voice to the crowd. “As you all can see, Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor keeps his promises. Obedience shall be rewarded and disobedience swiftly punished. So that my former page understands the gravity of defying my orders, he shall watch my cupbearer receive his punishment of twenty-five lashes and they must never speak to one another again. Sentence to take place immediately in the courtyard. I have ruled. We are done.”  
  
“The court is adjoined,” Aznat cried. “All rise and pay homage to the great and wise Ar-Pharazôn.” The drums started up again and then the brazen sound of horns.  Tigôn heard the rustle and murmurings of the crowd as they all stood.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn came down the steps of the dais.  He gestured at Hazûn.  “Bring them, and let’s get this over with,” he said.  Impatiently throwing a leg of his spotted fur cloak over his shoulder, he turned and left the room, followed by the Counselors.   
  
People were threading by, either not looking at Tigôn or sending him scornful looks.  A few men and one woman met his glance and licked their lips or widened their eyes enticingly.  He could see that the repercussions of this would be with him for some time to come.  He glanced at Sûla and found the zirâmîki watching him with a sad expression in his lovely eyes.  Sikhulzin and Hozdûnik approached, each taking one of Sûla’s elbows and escorting him from the room.  Sûla turned his head and looked over his shoulder, eyes huge with regret, as they took him away.  
  
Annatar also looked at him and his lips quirked into a sardonic smile.  Then he followed Sûla.   
  
Tigôn glanced up and discovered Lord Elendil towering over him. “You’ll report to me tomorrow,” he said.  “I have need of a runner.  Take courage, my friend, now comes the hard part of all this.”    
  
“Thank you, so much, híren,” Tigôn said softly. “I shall not fail you.”  He was desperately on the verge of tears.  
  
“Come along, messenger,” Hazûn said.  “You are lucky to have escaped the King’s wrath after your little performance with his zirâmîki.  Still,” he paused, “it would be hard to resist that.”  He nodded in Sûla’s direction.   
  
Tigôn’s legs suddenly felt weak. This was going to be hard on him, but even harder on Sûla. He kept reminding himself that it could have been Sûla’s horrible death he had to witness, not a mere flogging. But he still felt hollow.  How could he never speak to him again!  
  
With Hazûn on one side and Elendil on the other, Tigôn followed the crowd through the hallways and out the doors and into the lower courtyard to witness the King’s justice.   
  
***************         
Aglahad - a canon Adûnaic name.  
Aznat - an invented Adûnaic name.  
Azrazirân - Tigon's father. Approximate Adûnaic translation for Eärdur meaning 'servant of the sea' to Adunaic 'beloved of the sea.'  
Golodhren - Sindarin for Noldorin  
Hazûn - the Captain of the King’s guard and the one who ‘captured’ Annatar.  Invented Adûnaic.  
híren - my lord in Sindarin.  
Kuphîr, Zanar, and Darîkil - the King’s pages.  Invented Adûnaic.  
Pâroth - an invented Adûnaic name combining the canon words hand (pâ) and cut (roth).

-tbc-


	26. The Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sûla wakes up from his ordeal at the whipping post and discovers he has a new master who tells him a secret he does not want to hear and Ar-Pharazôn witnesses a test of Annatar’s elixir.

The water in the tub softly steamed. Sûla hesitated, both fearing and desiring to get in. It had been several days since he’d had a bath and he felt filthy. Best to brave it. Carefully, slowly, he eased himself down into the water and then screamed when the heat seared his poor flayed back.    
  
He heard a soft chuckle from behind the screen and then Annatar’s beguiling voice. “Do you want some more morthul?”   
  
“Yeah,” Sûla gasped.   
  
After the King had sentenced him, the guards had drawn lots to determine who would do the flogging. Hozdûnik pulled the short stick and had executed his duties so vigorously that Ar-Pharazôn had stopped him at twenty lashes with a curt, “That’s enough!”  
  
Sûla had not expected it to hurt so much. The first seven he bore well, he thought, but after that each one seemed to cut like a line of fire until his whole back burned. When the guards freed Sûla’s hands from the manacles attached to the pillar, he was unable to stand and fell on Hazûn.    
  
“Where to?” Hazûn had asked.  Sûla couldn’t think at all.  Whereto indeed, if the King no longer wanted him?  He said nothing. He felt a strange soaring sensation as if he were flying.   
  
“My chambers,” said a silky voice in his ear. “The King has given him to me.” Annatar came into Sûla’s wavering vision, an apparition tall and frightening in his black armor.   
  
Sûla’s surroundings, including the gallows atop the raised platform, the whipping post at its feet, Hozdûnik holding the bloody flogger, and the spectators gathered on all sides like the crows in his dream — all spun around in a sickening swoop.  He barely remembered being carried to Annatar’s room, or the quiet hands that spread some sweet-smelling salve on his back, before he’d passed out on a couch. When he awakened, the tub had arrived, and he heard Annatar commanding him to bathe.  
  
He sat unmoving in the water, hunched over.  Dead inside.       
      
Annatar appeared, holding a cup. He had doffed his armor and now wore a black sueded silk robe decorated with gold embroidery.  His long red hair was loosely plaited and hanging over his shoulder.   
  
“Drink this,” he said, handing Sûla the cup.  
  
Sûla drank down the liquid, which tasted foul, but it helped.  As his senses dulled, his back began paining him less, for which he was grateful.  There was so much he did not want to think about.    
  
“There is a sponge and soap on the tray there,” Annatar said.  
  
“Why?” Sûla asked, abruptly looking up and meeting the sorcerer’s golden eyes.  
  
With a soft rustle, Annatar sat down in a chair next to him. “An ambiguous question,” he said. “Because you’re dirty?”  
  
“You know what I mean,” Sûla said. “You think I don’t understand your methods.  But, I’m learning.”  With a wince, he extended his arm to take the sponge and rubbed some soap on it. “So, tell me, why am I here?”  
  
“I thought you heard me at the whipping post. You belong to me now, the King’s reward for good service.”  Annatar’s lip curled.  “Once you heal up, you’ll be quite useful.”  
  
“For what?” Sûla asked. “I have nothing you want. They took everything from me.” He hissed in pain as he attempted to sponge under his arms.   
  
“You bore up well under the lash. Hardly a whimper. I was impressed,” Annatar said.  
  
“I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction,” Sûla replied, gritting his teeth. That hurt his jaw, sore from bearing down so hard on the rolled cloth they’d put in his mouth to keep him from biting off his tongue.  How considerate.   
  
“Apparently, they didn’t take everything,” Annatar said. “You still have your pride. There is a core of steel within you.  As I said, useful.” He knelt on the floor next to the tub and picked up a clay pitcher which he used to scoop up some water.  “Bend forward,” he said, and when Sûla complied, he slowly poured water over his head.  “Lean back now and I’ll wash your hair.”   
  
Gasping a little, Sûla eased himself back, resting his neck on the lip of the tub, while Annatar poured flowery smelling liquid soap into his hands and began rubbing Sûla’s scalp with strong strokes.  It felt so good.  Sûla sighed.       
  
“Don’t get used to this.  I’ll never do it again,” Annatar said.   
  
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sûla replied. “I’ll be useful for what?”  
  
“I require an assistant.”    
  
In shock, Sûla opened his eyes and a drip of soapy water made them sting.  He shut them again,  and took in a deep breath.  
  
“You learned the spells I taught you quite easily and you employed your skills to good effect. You might have noticed that I hid your abilities during the trial. It took me some effort to stop the visions that would reveal your attempt to drug Dulginzin and your use of the freezing spell on him and his brother. You ought to be grateful.”  
  
“I am,” Sûla said. “Although, no doubt, you did not do it out of kindness. It protected you as well. A pity you didn’t show as much restraint when you revealed what Tigôn and I did together.”  
  
“What I showed could have been worse and you know it,” Annatar said. “In any event, I’ve done you a favor.”              
  
“Forgive me if I don’t see it that way.”  
  
“Romantic entanglements will only impede your training. You show great promise.  I'm offering you an opportunity to be more than a servant.  I want you to become my apprentice.”  
  
“Apprentice?  You mean learn your magic?”  
  
“Eventually. For now, you’ll need to fetch and carry. Take messages.  Do whatever needs doing.”  
  
“Are you offering this?  Or telling me? What if I should refuse?”  
  
“I prefer your cooperation to be voluntary.  It works out much better that way. I’m certain when you consider your choices, you won’t refuse.”     
  
“Heh,” Sûla snorted. “If I say no, will you take my will, like the guards in your tent, so that I follow you around like a starving dog?”  
  
“No. I need an assistant who has his wits about him.”   
  
“Tell me, my Lord, did you make it happen? Dulginzin’s murder? Everything? Just to get me to work for you?”   
  
Annatar laughed.  “Hardly.  Don’t get big ideas about your importance, which isn’t great. Dulginzin’s murder was unforeseen, even to me.”  
  
“I suppose I should thank you then, for rescuing an unimportant slave.”  
  
“Yes, you should,” Annatar said. “Without my truthsaying, they would not have believed you and very likely instead of this pleasant bath you’d be experiencing the abrupt removal of your entrails.  Here, lean forward.”  
  
Involuntarily Sûla shivered.  “Because of who I am,” he said angrily. He hissed in pain as a pitcher full of warm water sluiced over his head and the soap ran into his wounds. Little islands of foam floated on the surface of the water.  Another pitcher of water finished the rinse.  
  
“Because you are a pleasure slave, yes. You have a grasp of the constraints of your station,” Annatar replied.  “What options does a zirâmîki have, once he’s lost his beauty or the King tires of him?”  The sorcerer poured some olive oil into his hands, worked it through Sula’s hair, and squeezed it out.  He reached to the tray and handed Sûla a comb.   
  
“I’m only too well aware of that,” Sûla said. “I had plans, but they are like the wind now. The guards took all the jewelry the King gave me.”  He grimaced as he began combing out the tangles in his hair.  
  
“Did they?” Annatar said in an amused tone. “Perhaps something can be done about that. Move your hair aside.”  He cocked his head, assessing Sûla’s back. “You will be sore for a bit, and then stiff, but I’ll be able to keep it from scarring.  It was a light sentence.  I think Ar-Pharazôn must truly care for you.”  
  
Sûla made a noise of disbelief.  “If he cared, he would never have sent me to attend Lord Dulginzin. I begged him not to.”  
  
“You were his possession, with no will of your own. Why should he accede to your wishes?”  
  
Sûla hung his head.  “I just thought . . .”  
  
“You thought because you slept with him and had his ear, that he would love and protect you.  A quaint notion.  One to leave behind from now on.  Remember what I said; affection is an impediment to your ambitions.”  
  
“I never thought the King loved me,” Sûla said sullenly. “I knew better.”  But he realized that he had overestimated his importance to Ar-Pharazôn.  Not that he cared all that much for the King, but he’d thought there was at least some affection on his Majesty’s part.  It hurt to realize that he was merely a vessel for the King’s pleasure. A pretty plaything. None of it mattered now.  Sûla rose a little to soap up his loins.  He was feeling numb. There was something painful trying to come to the surface of his thoughts.    
  
“Ar-Pharazôn had one condition when he gave you to me.  He said he still wishes you to perform for him, on occasion. Particularly when he has a banquet.”  
  
“Lucky me,” Sûla said dryly.  He sat back in the water with a slight splash.    
  
“No, your response should be, ‘Would that serve you, my Lord?’” Annatar said mildly, but Sûla could hear the threat underneath.   
  
“Would that serve you, my Lord.”    
  
“Yes, it would. Are you clean?”  
  
Sûla scrubbed his face with his soapy hands and rinsed off.  “Yes.”  
  
“Get out. Dry off, then go lie down on the couch over there.”    
  
Sûla rose with a rush of water, and carefully stepped out of the tub. Annatar tossed him a drying cloth.    
  
As Sûla dried himself, he wondered at the sorcerer’s demeanor.  There was none of his former seductiveness.  Instead he was clipped, emotionless.      
  
Sûla spread the towel on the couch and lay down upon it, resting his head on his arms.  The morthul was making him pleasantly drowsy.  Annatar sat down next to him.  Sûla could feel the heat coming from his body like standing next to a flame.  He heard the scrape of a jar being opened and then once again felt the coolness of salve applied to his back with rough strokes. Perhaps being Annatar’s servant would not be so bad.   
  
“I find it interesting that fate has reversed our roles,” Annatar said.  “Not long ago I was the one lying wounded and you were tending _my_ back.”  
  
“You allowed the King to flog you,” Sûla said, wincing as Annatar applied the slippery salve.  “I know full well that if you had wished to stop him, he could not have done it.”  
  
“So you think?” Annatar said.  “Be assured, the King has his own will, which is stronger than my influence.  Some people are easier to manipulate than others.”  He put the cap back on the jar.  “‘Tis done. Sleep on your belly for the next couple of days.”    
  
“Be assured that I won’t lie on my back any time soon,” Sûla huffed. “Unless there’s some service you wish me to perform that you haven’t yet mentioned.”  
  
“As to that, we’ll see,” Annatar said. “Not until you’re healed.  Sit up so I can bandage your back.”  
  
Sûla grabbed the edge of the couch and pulled himself upright. “You said it wouldn’t scar?” Sûla craned his neck to look over his shoulder.   
  
Annatar began wrapping a length of linen around Sûla’s chest.  It felt so constricting. “Very little.  You might see some white lines if you color from the sun,” Annatar said.  “I’ll give you something later today that will heal it up rather quickly.”   
  
“What is that?” Sûla asked.  
  
“The elixir of youth.  The King asked that it be tried out on someone before he drinks it.”  
  
“And so that someone would be me,” Sûla said. “What if I turn into a toad, or something?”  
  
“If you do, I promise, you’ll be a most alluring toad,” Annatar said, with twitch of his lips.  He tied off the bandage.  
  
Sûla snorted.  “How much younger will I get?  I won’t be much good to you as a babe in arms.”  
  
“It won’t affect you that way.  It will just heal your wounds.  The older the man, the greater the effect.  Have no fear.  Do you think it would help me win the King’s favor if this potion did not function exactly as expected?” Annatar said.  “It will work, both on him and on you. However . . .”  
  
“What?” Sûla raised his head to look at him.    
  
“Remember I told you it required a certain ingredient.  That must be added last.  The brew is ready for it now.”  
  
“Let me guess,” Sûla said.  “You want me to provide it.”  
  
“I always knew you for a smart lad,” Annatar said.      
  
“I’m proving very useful already,” Sûla replied.  “How do you want me to do this? Do I just hang over the pot and spend into it?  I’m like to scorch my stones.”  
  
“I’ll give you a cup.”     
  
“How charming,” Sûla replied. “Should I kiss it first? Get it in the mood?”  
  
“You know, I’m tolerating your insolence because you’re in pain and disoriented,” Annatar said.  “You’ll find that my methods of discipline can be much harsher than Ar-Pharazôn’s.”  He laid his hand on Sûla’s head and suddenly the zirâmîki felt the full weight of the fear and despair he’d experienced in his dream while in prison. A sharp pain sliced through his belly. Ravens were gathering around him, watching, watching.  
  
Sûla squirmed under his hand.  “No, please, my Lord.”  
  
Annatar chuckled. “If you work hard and please me, the rewards can be equally great.”  He twisted his hand and Sûla was plunged into a vivid dream of lying in Tigôn’s arms, kissing him deeply.  It was so profoundly what he desired that when Annatar took his hand away, the pain of loss was even greater than the fear he’d felt before.   He bit his lip to keep from crying.   
  
“Be thankful,” Annatar purred.  “You’re alive and not permanently maimed, still beautiful, and you now have the opportunity for advancement beyond anything you could have imagined before.  You may yet achieve your heart’s desire. Oh, not your messenger friend of course.  The King has forbidden that, hasn’t he?”  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” Sûla replied dully. “Then tell me, what is my heart’s desire?”  
  
“Power,” Annatar said, and he smiled broadly enough that Sûla saw his pointed incisors.  “To be rich, respected, and feared. Remember what you told me when we first met.  You wanted to be a wolf.”  
  
“Ah.”  Sûla had a strange sensation, as if he was starving and suddenly saw a mirage shimmering just outside his reach composed of succulent meats and cheeses, ripe fruits, and a silver pitcher of cool wine, moisture beading on its surface.  He could almost hear Zizzûn rolling the bones.  
  
“I see you find that idea appealing,” Annatar said.  
  
“What’s the price?” Sûla replied.  “In my dream, you told me there would be one.”  
  
“I’ll leave you to figure it out,” Annatar replied.    
  
“I hate riddles.”  
  
“You must be absolutely devoted to me. Loyal, obedient, and forgoing emotional entanglements, beginning with your messenger friend.”  
  
“I don’t see why that is so important to you.”  
  
“Love is a weakness. It renders you vulnerable,” Annatar said.   
  
“I suppose that’s so.” A lead weight settled in his chest.  He realized that all the things Annatar had offered weren’t nearly as important as holding Tigôn close again. It was the only relationship in his life that he’d chosen for himself and he was loath to give it up.  He almost wished Tigôn had not interfered, then maybe Sûla could have taken the fifty lashes, but still be free to talk to him. But no, if twenty lashes felt like this, he would never have survived fifty.  Tigôn might have saved his life. Perhaps if he did what Annatar said and became a powerful sorcerer, he could determine his own fate.  Maybe he simply needed to go along with what Annatar wanted and bide his time.   
  
“It’s interesting, this bond you’ve formed with the Lord of Eldalondë’s son,” Annatar said. “I was quite . . . surprised when he came to your defense in front of everyone.” He shook his head. “Not what I would have anticipated from someone who desires respectability as much as he does.”  
  
“I guess you don’t know everything,” Sûla said.  He couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face and he covered his mouth.  When had anyone ever stood up for him as Tigôn had done?  He passed his fingers over his lips remembering that last desperate kiss through the bars of his cage.  Tigôn had been true to him when no one else in the world had.  That was precious to him.   
  
Annatar laughed softly.  “And how was it that two such different people, a Lord’s son and a zirâmîki slave, became such good friends?”  
  
“You know quite well.  We were waiting in the King’s tent one night and started playing a game of bones. After that, we played every night until the battle.”  He warmed to the memory of their late night conversations.     
  
“Curious,” Annatar said.  “He hadn’t hung around the King’s tent at night before, had he?”  
  
“No, I guess not.  The pages come and go, depending on the King’s needs.”  
  
“Did you ever wonder why he stayed around that first night?”Annatar said.  
  
Sûla looked up at him suddenly with narrowed eyes.  “Why?”  
  
“When he came seeking my help in the trial, I performed the truthsayer’s spell to search his memory. Imagine my astonishment when I learned that he was spying for Lords Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr.”  
  
“Spying?” Sûla said.  A feeling of anxiety began creeping into his heart.  “Why would he do that?”  
  
“Because Aphanuzîr asked him to.  They are all members of the Faithful, Sûla, a dangerously subversive group.  Why do you think Nimruzîr stood up for Tigôn and asked to take him into his service after the King had dismissed him?  That was rather a daring move on Nimruzîr’s part and openly rebellious.  I’m surprised the King didn’t see it.  Nimruzîr did it because he had to protect his little spy.”  
  
“I, I don’t believe it,” Sûla said.  But he knew suddenly with a certainty that it was true.  All those questions Tigôn had asked at first.   
   
“Do you want to see for yourself?” Annatar purred.  His eyes gleamed as he put his hands against Sûla’s temples.   
  
“No, no!” Sûla whimpered, but it was too late.  He was seeing Lord Nimruzîr’s intent face and heard Tigôn’s voice saying, “I don’t have much to report.  But he told me that the King raped and beat the Zigûr and that he tended the wounds.”  
  
Sûla felt his heart turn to glass and then shatter. Tigôn! So, it had all been a lie from the start! The feigned friendship, the late night camaraderie. He had seemed so genuine and innocent.  Not someone who could possibly play him false. Was it all a ruse?  Even the love-making?  He would have sworn by all the gods that Tigôn really felt affection for him. How could he have been so foolish?  So trusting? So, there was no one in the world he could turn to or depend on.  Everyone had betrayed him, without exception. He could feel a shriek building deep within.      
     
“We have enemies all around us, Sûla,” Annatar said.  “We must be vigilant.  I should like you to sharpen your skills, become a spy yourself.  Turn about is fair play, is it not? Continue to see Tigôn on the sly; I’ll protect you from the King.  But you must report to me everything he says about his new masters.”  
  
“No, no, I can’t.  I won’t,” Sûla cried.  And he burst into tears.  Covering his face with his hands, he turned away sobbing.  “Leave me alone.  Just leave me.  I hurt so much.  I don’t think I can bear it anymore.”  
  
“You will bear it and you will come to appreciate your new life, Sûla,” Annatar said in a voice of iron. “You are mine now, to use as I like.  Be grateful for all I’m offering you, because it could go very differently if you fight me.” He paused and his voice took on the purring tone again. “I can see that your affair with the messenger is still too raw.  We’ll talk about it more soon.  Now then, would you like your jewelry returned to you?”  
  
Sûla raised his head from his hands. “How?”    
  
“Leave that to me.” Annatar reached for a wooden cup and handed it to him.  “The brew is ready, all but the seed, which is needed to start the reaction.”  
  
Sûla took the cup in a loose grasp and stared at it blankly, his eyes wet.    
  
“Are you modest about this?  I wouldn’t have thought so, given your profession.” Annatar rose.  “You can stay behind the screen while you produce it.  Tell me when you’re done.  Be quick.  Ar-Pharazôn said he would arrive soon. Oh, and I’ll need some seed from him also.  I’m sure you can assist with that when he gets here.”    
  
Sûla looked down at his hands clasping the shallow wooden cup. He would like his jewelry back.  Each piece represented a step towards an independent life. He bit his lip and began moving his other hand while gazing at the tapestry on the wall featuring a hideous golden dragon belching flames at an army of hapless elves. Annatar had said that saving him from the gallows would bear a price and Sûla was beginning to realize just how high it was.  
  
**************  
  
Such a distasteful morning, Pharazôn thought, as he approached the Zigûr’s chamber accompanied by Milzagar, one of his guards, and the Regent’s food taster, an elderly man with a pointed beard named Dâurphursâr.    
  
Pharazôn hoped never again to have to witness the hanging of such a fat individual as Rabêlozar.  The counter weights had not been sufficient and when the Regent dropped, his head was ripped clean off his neck and it hung dangling in the breeze while the body collapsed in a heap below. Fortunately, Pharazôn was standing far enough away from the ensuing eruption of blood. And afterwards, he had to listen to the awful screams as Izindor gutted his servant. Truly, it was enough to put one off dinner.    
  
He regretted granting Izindor the right of vengeance as he thought perhaps Pâroth had actually performed a service by ridding him of the brutish Dulginzin. After all, Izindor’s son was the one who had started this whole bloody business by demanding Sûla for the night. And now, Pharazôn was deprived of his zirâmîki, whose services he was sorely missing.  To think that Dulginzin had tried to lay hands on his slave.  If he’d only known that before, much could have been averted. Sûla was at fault too for not telling him.  By Ossë, what a mess!  
  
A new idea came to him. Perhaps Annatar’s truthsaying could be used to ferret out this sort of intrigue in the future.  The Maia was proving more useful than he could have imagined when they first captured him.  Pharazôn smiled to himself.  He would show his doubting counselors a thing or two.  He’d made the correct decision to keep the Zigûr alive and bring him back to Númenor. Ah, he would relish seeing their faces when they learned about the elixir.   
  
The trials and the executions had set the fleet’s departure back a day, which displeased the King greatly.  Later that evening he was scheduled to meet with Azgarad and Aphanuzîr to learn what progress had been made.  More unpleasant work. He was weary of this place.  It would be two fortnights’ journey back to the port of Rómenna and he was anxious to put to sea and return to his life at Armenelos. He missed the glorious weather, his comfortable rooms, and the exciting parties with his lovely boys. Although he had to admit that all was not perfect there. His queen, Zimraphel, awaited him too, along with the problem of her failure to produce an heir.  It was not something he wished to contemplate.         
  
They reached the doors that led to the Zigûr’s rooms and Pharazôn rubbed his hands together. Frankly, he had doubted that the sorcerer could really produce a potion to restore youth until yesterday when he saw the stuff bubbling away on the hearth. If Annatar could deliver on his promise, what a boon that would be, both for himself and for the realm of Númenor!  Perpetual youth up until the day a man died would be precious. And if Pharazôn was the one controlling this secret, well, it was enough to fire avaricious dreams in the most humble of men. He could go down in the histories as Númenor’s greatest king.   
  
In addition to those grand schemes, there was the more pressing and practical reason that he had not been feeling well of late.  He was anxious to see if it worked.  
  
As Milzagar opened the door to Annatar’s room, Pharazôn was accosted by a strange smell: rich and earthy with acrid undertones.  The sorcerer was bending over, stirring a cauldron suspended from an iron rod over a fire of banked coals. The mud-colored mixture burped softly around the long handled spoon.  
  
“Ah, my Lord.” Annatar straightened and bowed slightly.  Liquid dripped off the spoon. “You’ve come.”   Dressed in his robes, the Zigûr looked softer, more approachable. Much better. Pharazôn found him somewhat intimidating in all that armor.   
  
“Is it ready?” Pharazôn asked.   
  
“Nearly.  It requires one additional ingredient.”     
  
“And that would be?”    
  
Annatar lifted an eyebrow.  “Remember what I told you? A man’s seed taken fresh.”  
  
“Ah yes,” Pharazôn said.  “Whose?”  
  
“Yours.”  
  
“From me?” Pharazôn protested.  “I, I didn’t anticipate that.”  
  
Annatar chuckled. “I promise it won’t hurt at all.” He turned and called out, “Sûla!”  
  
Pharazôn was somewhat unnerved to see his former zirâmîki emerge from behind a folding screen.  He was wearing a clean pair of thin cotton trousers and nothing else. Compared to when the King had last seen him, he was looking quite attractive. His hair was freshly washed and hanging in long waves about his shoulders and his beautiful light brown eyes had been lined in kohl. But the bandages wound about his torso reminded Pharazôn that he was the one responsible for giving the order to flog him. An order he regretted. Watching the guard viciously lash Sûla’s back, Pharazôn had thought it a shame to mar that beauty. But he could not afford to be lenient towards a slave.   
  
Sûla’s expression was drawn in pain.  When he raised his eyes to the King’s, a fleeting shadow of anger and hurt passed across his features. It bordered on disrespect.  
  
“Hello Sûla,” Pharazôn said, feeling awkward.  He didn’t like that look.  He was completely within his rights to have his errant slave chastised.  His waking dreams the night before had been filled with the images he’d seen of Sûla and Tigôn together and the look of rapture on Tigôn’s face.  None of his zirâmîkin had ever looked at him quite like that.  He couldn’t get over it. Seeing Sûla now brought it all back, all the rat’s nest of conflicting emotions.  
  
“My Lord King,” Sûla inclined his head.  “I’ve been ordered by my master to perform a service.”    
  
“Yes, well.” Pharazôn looked uncomfortably at Annatar.  This felt rather cold and not erotic—not how he liked to do things.  He waved at the guard and the taster.  “You may wait outside for me.”  
  
Milzagar hesitated.  “Are you certain, Sire?”  
  
“Yes, yes, I’m safe with both of them.  Stay close for my call.”  
  
The door shut behind them.    
  
“Well?” Pharazôn said.       
    
Sûla approached and knelt before him.  With practiced ease he thumbed open the buttons on Pharazôn’s breeches, and pulled his cock free.  Then abruptly, his warm mouth was on him, sucking.  After a few moments, Pharazôn closed his eyes in bliss. How delicious! Why had he given the boy up?  Maybe he should demand Sûla back and to the Void with his promises.  Hmm, something wasn’t the same though. When he looked down, he noticed Sûla was all brisk technique. Gone were the flirtatious looks, the caressing, the sighs as if he lived for this very thing.  He supposed the flogging might be to blame for this change of heart. Or perhaps Annatar had done something to him?  That could be it.  But then, oh that tongue just there, yes, and that tight suction, and the way he used his hand. It was building, building, oh, that was good. Yes, and suddenly he was right on the brink. With a groan, he put his hands on Sûla’s shoulders and exploded into that warm mouth. Sûla took it all in, holding his mouth still. Marvelous! Yes, just what he’d needed. Although it was not as good as Annatar had been, but then he’d never experienced anything like the sensations of that night with the sorcerer.   
  
Sûla rose with his mouth tightly shut, cheeks puffed. He strode over to the cauldron and spat the milky fluid into it, and then spat again.  He looked up at the King with a curled lip and ran his arm across his mouth.    
  
That was beyond bounds. “I have to drink that? After he spit in it!” Pharazôn cried.  
  
“I’m sure you’ve tasted the boy’s spit before, assuming you ever kissed him,” Annatar said, as he stirred.  “Thank you, Sûla.  Bring me the wine now.”  
  
Sûla filled a large goblet half full of wine and brought it to Annatar, who dipped up a ladle of the mirky potion and poured it in.  It made a hiss and the smell of the mixture was strange but not unpleasant. Annatar set the goblet down on a table. “It needs to cool somewhat,” he said.    
  
“I’ll call the food taster,” Pharazôn said.   
  
“No need. Sûla will try it,” said Annatar.  
  
That made the King uneasy.  What if something happened to the boy?   
  
“I want to see how well it cures his back,” Annatar said.  “Wouldn’t you agree that would be desirable?  Bring me a wet cloth, Sûla.”    
  
Sûla brought the cloth to Annatar, then turned and stood quietly as the Zigûr untied the bandages and slowly unraveled the outer layer.  He soaked the inner layer until the sections began peeling off in his hand. Raw, angry red weals emerged.   
  
Pharazôn swallowed, feeling uncomfortable.  “I’ve seen worse,” he said. Again Sûla shot him a dark look. “I want the taster here to observe the effects,” Pharazôn said. “He is trained in observing physical reactions. Tell them both to come back in.”    
  
Sûla went to the door and beckoned Milzagar and Dâurphursâr into the room, while the King made himself comfortable in a large cushioned wicker chair near the fire.  “You may proceed,” he said, waving at Sûla.  
  
Sûla lifted the goblet by both handles, eyed the contents balefully, then took a sip.  He made a face.  
  
“How does it taste?” Annatar said.  
  
“Like you’d expect a mixture of stewed bat wings, blood-root, and seed to taste,” Sûla replied.   
  
“No ill effects?” Dâurphursâr asked professionally.  “No cramps, gripping stomach?”  
  
Sûla paused.  He took another swallow.  “None that I can tell.  Oh!” His eyes grew big. “My back is beginning to itch.”   
  
“That’s a good sign. Finish it,” Annatar commanded.  
  
Sûla drank the rest of the brew.  “A little too hot,” he complained.  “Makths my tongue feel thticky. Ah dizzy now.”  He sat down on a couch near the screen.  “Feel odd.  Kind of thick.”  He held his stomach.  This made Pharazôn anxious.  Was there something wrong with it?    
  
“How soon will the potion work?” the King asked.  
  
“It’s working now,” Annatar replied.  “It will take an hour for the full effects to manifest.”  
  
“What do you think?” Pharazôn asked Dâurphursâr.    
  
“I’d give it some time yet,” the little man said.       
  
“Well, perhaps we can wait more comfortably.” The King licked his lips, eyeing the wine jug and cups.  “Sûla, bring me some of the wine.”  
  
Sûla rose with a lurch, dutifully went to a side table and filled two cups for the King and Annatar.  
  
“I feel lucky to have been able to acquire your servant,” Annatar said.  “He’s well trained.”  
  
“I’m beginning to regret the gift,” Pharazôn said.    
  
“You might notice that he looks different now,” said the sorcerer.  
  
“Oh, indeed. He looks a bit pale. How does your back feel, Sûla?”  
  
“It’s very itchy now,” Sûla said.    
  
“I was referring to his jewelry,” Annatar said.    
  
“What jewelry?”  
  
“Precisely,” Annatar replied.     “I recall in particular a lovely golden dragon with ruby eyes.”  
  
“Ah, yes,” Pharazôn peered at the boy.  “What happened to it, Sûla?”  
  
“The guards took it when they put me in prison, my Lord.  I presume they have it in safe-keeping,” Sûla said. His sullen face told a different story.  
  
“Well, you shall have it back of course,” Pharazôn said jovially.  “Milzagar, do you know anything about it?”  
  
The guard’s face was unreadable.  “I’ll find out,” he said.    
  
“Go now and have it fetched.  The dragon and his rings and some bracelets, wasn’t it?”  
  
Sûla nodded. “And some long, golden earrings.” He glanced at the Zigûr, who nodded.  
    
“There now, are things better between us?” Pharazôn said to Sûla.    
  
“As ever they were, my Lord.”    
  
“Come here, my boy, and give me a kiss.  I want you to know I did not enjoy seeing you punished.  I would like you to serve me again when I call for it.”  
  
“Master?” Sûla looked at Annatar.  
  
“Whatever the King desires,” Annatar said.    
  
Sûla came and gave Pharazôn a light kiss on the lips.  Such a sweet mouth.  “That is better,” Pharazôn said.  “Now then, Annatar, do you think we could produce this elixir on a large scale if you trained other workers to make it?”     
  
Annatar ceased stirring. “You could,” he said, “but whatever they made would prove useless without my spells to activate the ingredients. Of course, you’d be welcome to try the experiment to see for yourself.”  He smiled with a flash of pointy white teeth that caused a ripple of desire to run through Pharazôn.  The sorcerer shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid you must keep me around.”  
  
“Just remember,” Pharazôn growled. “Your position, your freedom, and your life are dependent on continued good behavior.  Don’t forget who holds the power here.”  
  
Annatar bowed.  “I have no illusions on that score.”  He went over to Sûla and put a hand on his shoulder.  “Turn around, let’s see that back now.”  He bent his head to look, then chortled, “Look at that, Ar-Pharazôn.”     
  
It was indeed remarkable.  The bloody weals were only visible as raised pink trails. No weeping sores or scabs. It appeared as if a week of healing had occurred in a quarter hour.  
  
“Does it feel better, Sûla?” Pharazôn asked.   
  
“Yes, my Lord.  Although it itches mightily,”  Sûla said, reaching for his back.    
  
Annatar slapped his hand away. “That proves it’s healing.  Don’t scratch or you’ll make it worse again.”  He took Sûla’s wrist and counted under his breath, then with thumb and forefinger he examined Sûla’s eyes by stretching his eyelids open, first one, then the other.  “How do you feel?”  
  
“Better, quite good!” Sûla exclaimed.  “It’s remarkable!”  Indeed his voice was much stronger than when Pharazôn first heard him speak.  His eyes seemed brighter, his color good, and he stood straighter.       
  
Annatar waved a hand at the bandages on the table.  “No need for these now.  We’ll allow your back to continue healing in the air. Well, Ar-Pharazôn, are you convinced about the efficacy of this cure?”  
  
“I should like to try it,” Pharazôn said.  It seemed as if he could feel every ache in his joints.  If this worked . . .  
  
“My Lord,” said Dâurphursâr, “if I may, I should like to test it for you first.  We can’t be too careful,” the little man added.     
  
Annatar nodded at Sûla, who prepared another dose of the elixir and carried it over.     
  
“I wonder if it would be good for this pain I get in my knees?” the taster said eagerly as he reached for the cup with both hands.   
  
****************  
Dâurphursâr - invented name from the canon Adûnaic words, phursâ - to gush and dâur - gloom.  
  
***************  
  



	27. The Dragon with the Ruby Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tigôn discovers unforeseen consequences of having revealed his affair with Sûla, finds a sympathetic ear, and makes a decision, while Annatar removes a rival and tightens his grip on Sûla.

The wine merchant, tall with stooped shoulders and a closely cropped beard, stood behind the counter, eyeing Tigôn speculatively.  “Yes, messenger,” the man said, “ as Lord Nimruzîr ordered, six thousand barrels of the red shall be ready to distribute to his ships by tomorrow.”  
  
Tigôn nodded.  “Good. My lord is not happy with the delays. I shall tell him.”  
  
The merchant cocked his head.  “You look tired after your ordeal at the trial yesterday.”  He reached out, snaked a hand through Tigôn’s curls, and then trailed his fingers down the messenger’s cheek.  “I was just opening a cask of dry Lebennin.  I pray you, come and have a taste with me.  That way you can assure your master of its quality.”  He smiled invitingly.  
  
Tigôn bowed his head right out from under the man’s hand. “Thank you for your kind offer of hospitality, but I have many messages to carry,” he said curtly.  He turned and strode out of the shop.  When he was out of the merchant’s sight, he struck a wall with the flat of his hand. That was the third such offer today, one of which had come from a member of the King’s guard, and he was completely vexed as well as sorely embarrassed. Did all of Umbar now entertain thoughts of bedding him?  No one had paid him any such attention before. He’d been an anonymous messenger who came and went quietly, which he much preferred.  Of all the possible results of yesterday’s revelations, people thinking him an easy mark was not one he’d anticipated.  
  
Fortunately, he was done for the day. Avoiding eye contact, he left the bustling docks and headed back toward the palace.  Clouds were coming in and he wondered if the fine weather would turn bad, which would make for a miserable time loading up the ships.  He hoped for no delays, as he wanted to be soon quit of Umbar. In the background of his thoughts throbbed a sense of loss, which he could give a name if he paused to think about it.  Sûla.  Tigôn had not seen him since the flogging yesterday. He still felt sick to his stomach when he remembered his lover, jaws clenched around a rag, twisting and flinching under the lash that cut bloody stripes across his back.    
  
The King had been standing next to Tigôn and when he tried to look away, sternly bade him watch what happened to disobedient servants. But from Ar-Pharazôn’s glassy expression, Tigôn believed that the King was not enjoying it either. When Sûla sagged bonelessly in the manacles, Tigôn choked and his eyes pricked with tears.  He was profoundly grateful when the King yelled at the guard to halt, five strokes short of the full sentence. Seemingly, Ar-Pharazôn did care for Sûla after all.  But then the King bumped against him, casually put a hand on Tigôn’s waist as if steadying himself, then let it slip downwards to squeeze his rear.  Uh, no!  
  
Tigôn feigned slapping at a fly in order to step away from the King’s embrace, murmured something, he didn’t remember what, and managed to catch Lord Elendil’s eye, who promptly ordered him off with a message.  That night as Tigôn lay in his bed, he wondered how Ar-Pharazôn could have made a play for him at that moment, just after watching his bedmate whipped bloody. Why should the King forbid them from having a relationship, but feel it acceptable to fondle his messenger, something that was previously unheard of?  Had he grown so arrogant and venal?  Tigôn realized something shameful and potentially treasonous.  He, who had hated very few people in his life, hated his King.     
  
Thinking back on that now and remembering the merchant’s leer, Tigôn felt utterly disgusted with all those who sought to pervert the magical night he’d spent with his friend. He didn’t want anyone but Sûla. Tigôn couldn’t stop thinking about him. Where was he now?  Who was treating his wounds?  It was all so frustrating!  
  
Feeling disheartened and a bit lightheaded from hunger, Tigôn decided to stop at the servants’ dining hall before reporting to Elendil.  When he got there and went through the serving line, he saw Darîkil sitting at a table with the other two pages, Zanar and Kuphîr.  Holding his plate and wine cup, Tigôn hesitated.  He’d been friendly enough with all of them in the past, although coming as he did from Eldalondë, he’d always felt somewhat of an outsider.  Zanar was the son of a wealthy shipping merchant in Rómenna; Kuphîr was the by-blow of a Bawîba Manô priest that the King had taken on as a favor to Ikar-lak; and Darîkil was the fourth son of a lesser lord of Hyarrostar, who lived in Armenelos. All of them were King’s Men, not members of the Faithful. They were talking amongst themselves, heads lowered. Then Darîkil saw him.    
  
“Well, look who it is,” Darîkil said, and the other two raised their eyes. “The cock-sucker. I’m surprised you can show your face without blushing, Eldalondë.  That was quite a performance yesterday.”  
  
The dozen or so servants sitting around at long tables ceased talking and stared at him. Tigôn felt himself flushing to the roots of his hair.    
  
“Ha, look at your face. I guess you do have some shame after all,” Darîkil said.  He stood up, pushing his chair back with a screech. “Do you know how many lewd looks I’ve had to endure today?  One of the foot soldiers actually suggested something unsavory.  I used to wear this with pride.” He tapped the silver messenger wings on his tunic. “But because of you, they think we’re all whores now. I’ve a mind to thump you for it.”  
  
“What happened yesterday was the last thing I wanted,” Tigôn retorted. “I was publicly shamed and lost my position.  I think I’ve paid enough for one night’s folly.  Just let me eat my dinner in peace, will you?”  He set his plate and cup down at a vacant table.  
  
“Ah, let him be,” Kuphîr said roughly, rubbing his thumb across his broad jaw.    
  
“I’m not going to sit anywhere near the likes of him,” Darîkil said.  He headed out of the room, but as he walked by Tigôn, he pushed his head down into his plate, burying Tigôn’s nose in fish stew.  
  
Tigôn jumped out of his chair and raised his fists. “I have no quarrel with you,” he said.  “But by the gods if you do that again, you’ll find I can defend myself.”  
  
“Let us see you try it, mîki,” Darîkil replied and shoved Tigôn’s chest.  
  
“Not in here, boys,” one of the Umbarian servants said in a threatening growl.  
  
“Quit it,” Zanar hissed, grabbing Darîkil’s arm.  “No fighting, that’s the rule. Do you want to get us all flogged?”  
  
Darîkil dropped his hands to his sides. “You’re right. The pleasure I’d get from kicking his arse is not worth the risk.”  He stalked off, followed by the others.  
  
Angrily, Tigôn sat back down, wiped his nose off with a napkin, and quickly ate his dinner without looking at anyone else.  He’d lost face with everyone. What a fool he was to have involved himself with Sûla!  A weak, wanton fool.    
  
After eating, he retreated to his room, but found no solace there as it seemed filled with memories of his night with the zirâmîki. He pulled Sûla’s vest out of hiding under his bed and held it up, watching the firelight glinting off the metal links, remembering how it had rippled like a fish’s scales when Sûla had worn it dancing for the King. The very same King who after the dance had caressed Sûla’s cheek with such affection and then, just as easily, sent him off to be raped by Lord Dulginzin.  Tigôn gritted his teeth.  He had promised Sûla he would take the vest back to Lillu, but somehow he had not managed to do it yet.  He didn’t think he could face anyone else laughing at him.  
  
Tigôn lay down in the furs, inhaling the traces of the faint but lingering scent of the zirâmîki’s enticing perfume, and for the first time in a while thought about his mother’s younger sister, Aunt Azrabêth. Tigôn remembered her as a tall, beautiful, and strong-willed woman who was never afraid to speak her mind. He’d been about eight when, on her wedding day, she scandalized the family by running off with a lover, leaving her betrothed and all their relatives flabbergasted.  Tigôn had never forgotten standing in his stiff formals in the garden where the wedding was to take place, and watching his mother having hysterics while the groom’s family shouted at each other. After that, others in his family rarely spoke of Azrabêth at all.  It was as if she had died doing something profoundly wicked. No one visited her either, even though word got back to the family in Eldalondë that Azrabêth was running a tavern in Andúnië down by the havens.  During his summers spent with Elendil and his wife and sons, Tigôn had considered going to see her.  But he never had.  
  
In the past, he had wondered what had possessed his aunt to do such a crazy thing. Now he knew.  She had chosen love over respectability and now he had inadvertently followed in her footsteps.  He dreaded to hear what his parents would have to say about what he’d done. Perhaps they would forgive him, since he had done nothing so drastic as running off on his wedding day.  But he had brought scandal and disgrace to the family name and that would be hard to overcome. Maybe if he promised his father that this was just a foolish lapse that had happened in the heat of the moment, never to be repeated. Yes, that was his firm resolve, never to repeat this mistake.  He would be a dutiful son, forswear any other transgressions, and work hard to make his parents and Lord Elendil proud.  So why did he feel so wretched?    
  
**********           
  
Amandil found the King out on a terrace that overlooked the Bay of Umbar. Lord Azgarad stood at his side, gesturing at something in the distance.  It had been a beautiful warm day that foretold spring soon to come. Huge clouds were billowing up in the west but wisps of late afternoon light escaped them, turning the plastered walls of the palace golden. Out in the harbor and along the docks as far as the eye could see their ships were anchored.  Dark figures like ants swarmed back and forth in dinghies carrying out cargo, hurrying before dusk settled in.    
  
It was a charming scene but Amandil couldn’t enjoy it, exhausted as he was with cares and duties. He had been involved in a dozen arguments that day, problems of every kind with supplies, not to mention the sick horses. Moving legions of warriors from land to ships took plenty of organization.  Nevertheless, he was pleased to be able to report to the King that they were on schedule and should be able to sail within the next sennight.  
  
“Ah Aphanuzîr, there you are,” Ar-Pharazôn said, turning to greet him.  “Azgarad just arrived.  Isn’t it a glorious evening? Smell the sea, will you!”  He filled his lungs noisily.    
  
The King looked remarkably well, especially compared to how he’d looked yesterday at the trial. His cheeks had a pink blush, his face seemed thinner and smoother.  The dark circles under his eyes were gone. His hair waved thick and luxurious around his face. It was uncanny but he even moved with greater agility. In fact, if he didn’t know better, Amandil would say this was the young man he’d known from years ago.  Could it be the result of Annatar’s potion?  
  
“Sire?” Amandil said, suspiciously.     
  
“The stuff works!” Pharazôn cried.  “Ha ha! By Manwë’s thunder, the cussed stuff works!  Annatar is a genius!”  
  
“You tried it?” Amandil said, blinking and realizing he’d said something foolish.  He looked at Azgarad, who nodded his head.  
  
“Of course I tried it!  Can’t you tell?”  The King roared jovially, clapping him on the back.  “I feel marvelous and the mirror shows me a face I haven’t seen in years.  Truly, Aphanuzîr, my friend. You must try it yourself.  It’ll cure up all those problems with your feet you were complaining about.”  
  
“You didn’t . . .”  
  
“Now, don’t get all solemn and suspicious on me, as is your wont, Counselor,” the King replied.  “I took precautions. Both Sûla and the Regent’s poison taster tested it before I did.  I watched with my own eyes as Sûla’s whip weals healed up pink and healthy. And Dâurphursa, the taster, who had bad knees before he took it, was dancing about like an otter afterwards.”  He laughed again. “And then I had a whole goblet of the wretched stuff. I have to admit that there was some pain while it did its work but within the hour I was a new man. This is a marvelous day!  The beginning of a new era for Númenor!”  
  
Amandil was astonished.  He truly had thought the Zigûr was lying and had no intention of actually producing his potion. “My Lord, it remains to be seen how it will affect you over the long run.”  
  
“Azgarad said much the same thing and I’m getting tired of both of you,” Pharazôn declared.  “Even if this is temporary, I can always take more.  Damn, I feel as if I could fly right off this balcony!”  
  
“I wouldn’t recommend doing that, my Lord,” Amandil said.  “Not unless his potion also grows you a pair of wings.”  
  
“Aphanuzîr, think of the boon this could be for our people,” Azgarad said, rubbing his long hands together. “The potion could help with all the discontent we have among us about Êru’s ‘gift’ to men, making us one step closer to becoming like the elves.  I should like to try it myself, particularly after the day I’ve had.”  
  
“You won’t be sorry,” Pharazôn said.  “I’m sure everyone who learns about this will be lining up to take it.  I have such ideas for how we can profit from this!”  
  
“Do we know how long it lasts?” Amandil asked.     
  
“Annatar said he didn’t know, but that the effects are not permanent.  He thought you might need to take it again every month or so.”  
  
“Then it could be addictive,” Amandil said, thoughtfully.  “I know I’ve told you this, my Lord, but it bears repeating. This is Annatar we’re dealing with, Morgoth’s lieutenant and the architect of the downfall of Ost-in-Edhil. He is not to be trusted.  And you saw his power at truthsaying during the trials yesterday.  What if he decides to use his ability to extract information and keep it to himself or project images of fell beasts to terrify our people?”  
  
“You worry entirely too much, my friend,” the King replied. “The truthsaying was brilliant.  It worked perfectly. Those skills could prove very useful to us in uncovering other kinds of threats.  That is, if _we_ wield it.  I wouldn’t want our enemies to get hold of him. As for his trick of turning into a beast, since we know it’s just an illusion, we can always subdue him if we need to. And Sûla informed me that the Zigûr lost his ability to shape-shift when he destroyed his Ring.  I do not see a problem here.”  
  
Amandil shook his head.  “What do you think, Azgarad?”  
  
Azgarad stroked the patch of beard on his chin.  “I agree with you that the Zigûr is an unknown quantity as yet and not to be fully trusted.  But the King has made valid arguments about his value to us.  I feel safer knowing where he is so we can keep a close eye on him.  I wouldn’t want him wandering around free to work his wiles on others.  One of the reasons I felt it imperative to make this expedition was my concern about his alliance with the Haradrim who have been a thorn in our sides.  But that dynamic changed when Annatar came over to our side and proved most useful in helping to crush them.  I think we should learn all we can from him while keeping him constrained at Armenelos.”  
  
“Once we get him to Númenor,” Pharazôn affirmed, “he’ll be cut off from all his support— no servants, no orcs, no fell beasts to call upon.  We will have him surrounded. What harm can he do?”  
  
Amandil took a deep breath.  This was not going well. “My Lord, my heart misgives me.  I counsel you strongly . . .”  
  
“That is sufficient, Aphanuzîr,” the King said abruptly. “I have heard everything you have to say on the subject and I’ve made my decision. If you wish to remain on the Council, you will cease this treasonous talk!”  
  
“My King, I am not talking treason,” Amandil said, affronted. “I am merely doing my duty and offering you my advice.”  
  
Pharazôn laid a hand on Amandil’s upper arm.  “And I value your advice, else you would not be on the Council. But you have always been far too cautious.  You argued against this expedition, most urgently as I recall, and look how successful it’s been.  There will be no more discussion.  The Zigûr is going home to Númenor, on my ship as my personal attendant.” His eyes flashed and his hand closed tightly on Aphanuzîr’s shoulder.  “Have I made myself clear?”  
  
Amandil bowed his head. “You have, my Lord.”  
                                      
The King turned briskly toward Azgarad.  “Now, we have another important matter to discuss. Our Regent has been dealt with, but his execution leaves a void in administration here.  Umbar is a key foothold in Endórë.  I must have someone trustworthy to rule in my stead.”  
  
“Ah yes, my Lord,” Azgarad replied. “I have prepared a list of suitable men you might consider.”  He reached to a pocket and removed a scroll of paper, which he began to unroll.    
  
“No need for that,” Pharazôn said with a warm smile.  “I have an appointment in mind already.  Someone who has proven over many years to be most capable and who has my absolute confidence.”  
  
Azgarad glanced up suspiciously from the list. “Who, my Lord?”  
  
“You.”  
  
Azgarad’s mouth dropped.  And for a moment he was utterly speechless.  He looked at Amandil, who was equally flummoxed, and then back at the King.  “My Lord, I am honored, but I believe I am needed to help run the Kingdom at home.”  
  
“Nonsense. With the Regent’s treason and the Haradrim still marauding our borders, I need your skills here, Azgarad, more than I need you at home.  I am appointing Aphanuzîr as acting Steward in your place.”  
  
“My Lord . . . ,” Amandil said, surprised.  He glanced at Azgarad and shook his head ever so slightly.  He had not known this ahead of time.  
  
Azgarad ran an agitated hand over his forehead and back through his dark hair.  “My Lord,” he said tightly, “As you know, my wife and children are in Armenelos.  I have been away from home long enough as it is . . . .”  
  
“That is no impediment.  I shall send them to you directly as soon as we reach home.  Your wife may enjoy a change of scene.  I assure you, Azgarad, this is only temporary until you can get this place settled and I can send a replacement.”  
  
There was a pause while Azgarad digested this news. The King frowned.  “I have made my decision and will not be questioned.  It is the best course of action, and you know it.  My scribe Aglahad is drawing up the proclamation even now.  Shall we go in and sign it?”  
  
Azgarad set his jaw.  “As ever, I am your humble servant, my Lord.”     
                                      
***********  
  
Both Amandil and Elendil kept Tigôn busy carrying messages as they readied to disembark. There had been much to and fro between the captains of the other ships in the fleet.  It had taken the better part of five days, but they were nearly done. In two days, if the weather held, the Númenórean army would begin boarding and setting off in groups of twenty vessels, departing every hour. Tigôn was to go with Elendil, while Amandil would captain a different ship. They would all be part of the King’s escort.  
  
To avoid further trouble, Tigôn had been taking his meals with Amandil and Elendil instead of in the servants’ dining hall. From them he learned all the news he would normally have been privy to as the King’s messenger.  Amandil reported that the King had given Sûla to Annatar, who had succeeded in making the miraculous brew that conferred youth, which the King had tried successfully.  
  
Tigôn was surprised to hear that the King had given Sûla up, but he thought perhaps the zirâmîki would be treated better by the sorcerer than he had by the King. Still, he worried. Having been touched several times now by black magic, Tigôn knew it was not to be taken lightly.  As he went about his work, Tigôn heard much praise from the Umbarians about Annatar’s performance at the trial.  There were admiring tales aplenty about how he’d turned into a dragon and captured the murderer of the Númenórean lord.  Word of the magical elixir had spread and Tigôn heard much excited talk among members of the court. Although the elixir was a marvel, Tigôn agreed with Amandil. He did not trust Annatar and if the sorcerer desired Sûla as a slave, he had a motive, and Tigôn could bet a stake at bones it was not for Sûla’s benefit.  
  
That night when Tigôn reached his little room, he found an odd bundle of green cloth outside the door.  It was his cloak wrapped around his jacket, the garments he’d loaned to Sûla.  Had the zirâmîki delivered them himself? Tigôn looked around, but there was no sign of him, no note or anything. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected it; after all, they were forbidden to speak, but still he was disappointed.  He entered the room, set the clothes down on his bed, and stared at them and then at the mailshirt lying on his stool. He should honor his promise to Sûla to return it before they left Umbar.    
  
So, the next morning after breakfasting with Lord Elendil, Tigôn went in search of the former Regent’s zirâmîthi.  
  
He found Lillu talking intently with four other solemn zirâmîthin in their quarters on the far side of the palace.  They were dressed in gaily colored silks of varying hues: red, yellow, blue, green.  Tigôn was reminded of a group of pretty kirinki birds huddled under the eaves during a storm. When he walked in with the shirt draped over his arm, Lillu, who wore a low-cut gown in shades of aqua, stood. Her face brightened with a smile.    
                  
“Hello, my lady,” Tigôn said, feeling shy.  He had forgotten how beautiful she was. “I promised Sûla that I’d return this to you.” He bowed and presented the shirt.    
  
“Ah, I thought I’d never see it again,” she said with a light laugh as she took it from him and set it aside.  “Sûla could have kept it. Although perhaps he has no need of a dance costume now?”  
  
“Probably not.  The King gave him to the Zigûr and I don’t imagine a sorcerer needs a dancing boy.”  
  
“So we heard,” she said.  “The news, it flies quickly. I am sorry about what happened to you both. Such a pity that you may never see one another again.  I knew the night of the banquet that you were hot for each other.”  
  
“You did?” Tigôn asked.  He could feel himself blushing as the other women giggled.  
  
Lillu chuckled lightly. “We were dancing when you came into the solarium.” She waved at the other women. “All of us here nice to look at, eh? Do you notice us? No. What you do is stand there looking at him, like this.” And she jutted her head forward, dropped her mouth open and stared stupidly into space.  
  
Tigôn laughed. “I had no idea I did that,” he said.  “I did not intend to.”  
  
Lillu smiled. “You looked at him like he was your whole world, messenger Tigôn, and now your face is so sad.” She popped a finger softly underneath his chin.  “But please to keep spirits up. Our Lord Zizzûn casts the bones and the first throw is not the end of the game.”  
  
“I can’t imagine how this could turn out well,” Tigôn said. “Although it could have been much worse.  At least he wasn’t hanged.”  
  
“Ah yes, but our master the Regent was. Most horribly.”  Her smile disappeared.  “What do you think will happen to us now, Númenórean?  They say the new Regent is a married man with no use for pleasure slaves.  Will he cast us out onto the streets?  For us, this is the worst of calamities.”  
  
“But I thought you hated Rabêlozar?”  
  
She laughed softly.  “We have to eat, messenger Tigôn.”  
  
Tigôn had not thought about how the Regent’s death would affect others in his household.  “Perhaps I can do something for you,” he said. “I’ll talk to Lord Aphanuzîr, the new Steward. He can pass along the word to Lord Azgarad. There may be another place in the household for you.”  
  
“Oh, would you do that for us?” She gave him a heart-melting smile and leaned forward to kiss his cheek.  “We do have other skills, you know,” she said excitedly. “We all play instruments and sing.” Then she spoke in Umbarian to the others, who got up from their couches and came forward with a swish of silk garments to embrace him.    
  
Suddenly Tigôn was surrounded by soft voices and pleasant smells. His reaction told him he was not entirely immune to their charms. He laughed and held up his hands.  “Please, I don’t know if Lord Aphanuzîr can help you, but I will try.  And now I’d best be going.” He bowed and turned to go.  
  
Lillu came with him to the door. “Tigôn,” she said softly. “I think you are brave man to do what you did for your friend.  There are not many who would stand up like that in the face of a King’s wrath.”  
  
“Not so brave,” Tigôn said.  “I had no choice.  Not with the Zigûr’s truthsaying.”  
  
“Ah, but you did have a choice,” she replied with a smile. “Our masters think they control us, but our hearts they are like wild horses, not so easy to bridle sometimes. No one can tell us who to love, eh?”  
  
He shook his head sadly.  “I guess not.”  
  
She beckoned him to lean closer and said, “Early in the morning for the past three days, I have seen a handsome young zirâmîki come to the solarium to dance.  He too looks very sad.”  She raised her lovely dark eyes to look meaningfully at him.  
  
“Oh,” Tigôn said.  “Is that so?” And he hurried away.     
  
All that day and half the night, while tossing in his bed, Tigôn thought and thought, this way and that. And in the end, it was his unbridled heart that made the decision, though he knew not where it would take him.  
  
***********  
Miraculously, the golden dragon had returned and with it had come a strange tale. Sûla knew the Zigûr was behind it, although exactly what he’d done was a mystery. Sûla shifted in his cot behind the screen in the sorcerer’s chambers, fondled the warm metal curling about his arm and thought over what had happened yesterday.  
  
Hazûn, Captain of the King’s guard, had come cringing into the Zigûr’s rooms bearing a velvet sack. “My Lord Annatar,” he said with a deep bow. “We have retrieved your servant’s jewelry.”  
  
Annatar looked up from the book he was reading on Númenórean law. Although the Zigûr’s face was impassive, Sûla knew him well enough to recognize the sly satisfaction in his eyes. “Show me,” Annatar said.  
  
Hazûn upended the sack on the table in front of Annatar. With a metallic clang and a clatter, out tumbled Sûla’s earrings, rings, bracelets, and the dragon armband that the guards had taken when he was in prison. Sûla was thrilled. He’d thought he would never see any of it again.  
  
“Very good,” Annatar purred. His eyes lit with fire as he picked up the dragon arm bracelet. “It took you long enough to find it all.”  
  
Hazûn bowed. “As you well know, my Lord, when the command came to return them, at first no one knew where the jewelry had gone.”  
  
“Imagine that,” Sûla said dryly.  
  
Hazûn looked sidelong at Sûla, then back at Annatar. “After your interview with the guards, Hozdûnik confessed that he had sold it in the Umbarian market. The King ordered him imprisoned. Then, last night a very strange thing happened. Hozdûnik said he dreamed that the dragon had curled itself about his neck and was choking him. When he awoke, it was lying across his throat and the rest of the jewelry was sitting on the floor of his cell.”  
  
“And you believed that story?” Sûla said incredulously.  
  
“I’m not certain what to believe,” Hazûn said, nervously licking his lips.  “He wasn’t quite right after his confession to you, Lord Annatar. But the jewelry was there and even odder, there was a red line about his throat, which I saw for myself, and the man was truly terrified. I wondered if you knew more of this?” He appeared both stubborn and fearful, as if he would flee at the slightest word from the sorcerer. Sûla remembered that this was the man who had accompanied him at the battle of Arzog’s Pass when he used the spell. Perhaps Hazûn knew more than he should.  
  
Annatar laughed. “Oft does guilt play tricks on a man’s mind. I trust he will be punished?” He handed the dragon to Sûla, who pressed it onto his upper arm. Somehow it felt heavier than before.  
  
“I have ordered him flogged, Lord Annatar, tomorrow at dawn. He has been dismissed from the King’s service.”  
  
“A wise decision,” Annatar replied. “Sûla, is that sufficient satisfaction for the wrong done you?”  
  
“Yes,” Sûla said. Revenge was sweet. The guard deserved a good drubbing for the way he’d treated him. Sûla’s back itched as he remembered how zealously Hozdûnik had carried out his orders to flog him.  
  
“Please tell your men,” Annatar said in his soft viper’s voice, “that I will tolerate no disrespect toward my servants.” He rose, tall and menacing.  
  
That, too, was satisfying to Sûla—to have someone of such power looking after him in a way that the King had not.  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” Hazûn said, and bowed himself out.  
  
Thinking back on it now in the cold light of dawn, Sûla sat up in bed and looked at the dragon. “Did you really try to strangle Hozdûnik?” he asked aloud, and received only the glitter of ruby eyes for an answer. It was quite likely that Annatar had sent a dream to make the guard think the dragon was strangling him, but was it more than that? Had Annatar ensorceled it so that it came alive? That idea was unnerving. More and more, Sûla admired Annatar’s brilliance, but he was also developing a healthy fear of him. He, perhaps more than anyone at court, was aware that the sorcerer had only shown the pinky finger of his power. But as long as he was doing what the Zigûr wanted, he hoped he would not awaken some night with the dragon’s tail wrapped about his own throat. And now, he had better get up and attend to Annatar’s needs.  
  
Rising naked from bed, he peered past the divider and discovered that his master was not in the room. No doubt he’d spent the night with the King—again. The thought made his blood boil, although he wasn’t sure why. After all, sleeping with the King had been duty, nothing more. Except he had enjoyed being petted and fussed over, and now he’d been flung aside like an olive pit. Annatar had kissed him twice in the past and hinted at more to come, but since healing his back, the sorcerer had not so much as touched him. Must he be celibate while in Annatar’s service? He had needs too.  
  
His thoughts drifted unerringly to Tigôn, the bliss of being in his arms, and then immediately to the pain of learning about the messenger’s betrayal. His heart filled with anger and hate. Sometimes he thought that might be all that he’d ever feel again.  
  
Sûla went over to the dressing table and turned to examine his back in the mirror. The marks from the whip were barely noticeable. Annatar’s potion was truly amazing. Rubbing his chin, he noticed the stubble just beginning to appear, so he picked up a razor, and then, in consternation, leaned closer to the mirror. By Zizzûn! Overnight a blemish had appeared on the side of his nose. He wondered why he cared, when clearly no one else did. And why he suddenly felt like crying.          
  
But for Annatar’s orders that he exercise in the morning to keep the skin on his healed back supple and his body firm, he would have crawled back into bed and put the covers over his head. Why his physical condition mattered to Annatar, he had no idea. He was only good for one thing and clearly the sorcerer didn’t want him for that. Well, his lot was to obey. Besides, the musicians would be waiting for him in the solarium.  
              
Sûla heated up water, washed his face, popped the pimple and dabbed on a bit of salve, then shaved, applied paint to his eyes, braided his hair, and dressed in his black dancing pants and sleeveless blood-red silk vest embroidered in gold thread.  The King’s head of household has sent over his bits of clothing but it was quite limited compared to what he’d owned in Armenelos. He wondered if he could get any of his other possessions back once he returned to Númenor.  
  
As he left the room, Sûla nodded at Bildûn, who stood guard. “Tell his Lordship that I’m going to dance, as he commanded,” he said. Bildûn glanced at the dragon on Sûla’s arm and his mouth opened in alarm. Sûla looked down. The little red eyes seemed to gleam in amusement.  
  
“What is the matter with you?” he asked Bildûn.  
  
“It . . . it winked at me,” the guard said.  
  
“Ha,” Sûla snorted. “Every one around here is seeing things.” He slammed the door shut behind him.                                                  
  
***********  
Azrabêth - sea-sayer in Adûnaic  
kirinki birds - canon name for a flashy red bird on Númenor.  
  


-tbc-


	28. Unbridled Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tigôn has a plan; he just needs to try to convince Sûla.

Crouched behind the pillar, Tigôn breathed in an intoxicating scent of humid greenery and sweet orange blossoms. Trees and flowering bushes rose from man-sized earthenware pots laid out in rows around a gently splashing fountain in the center of the solarium. The foliage spread and intertwined into an overarching canopy so dense that he could not see from one end of the room to the other; vines snaked around the pillars that upheld the roof. The early morning sunlight coming through windows in the ceiling cast faint, dappled shadows on the mosaic floor. Red ants had somehow found their way inside and were marching in a line past him. Tigôn paid them little heed as he was intent on watching the arched doorway.  
  
This was folly of great magnitude. Tigôn knew that. He had no business lurking here and none at all attempting to contact Sûla. He wondered how much trouble he would have if caught. Possibly Lord Elendil would dismiss him and he would be flogged, just as Sûla had been five days ago. Perhaps he would be cast out in the streets of Umbar to fend for himself. He might even die. Yet, despite the danger, here he was. Last night as he tossed and turned in his bed, he’d been overcome by an idea that, although quite mad, he figured was their best hope. He simply had to try to get Sûla to go along with it. But curse him, where was he?  
  
Just then Sûla strode in soundlessly on bare feet in that easy dancer’s glide, his arms swinging. Tigôn’s heart jumped into his throat. Oh, he was beautiful! Just what magic did the zirâmîki possess? It was more than the harmony of features, a delicate jaw, high cheekbones, a strong nose, and sweeping eyebrows that framed those remarkable light brown eyes. It was his attitude, the jaunty throw of a hip, the curving smile of his lips that suggested sensual delights enough to warm anyone’s dreams. It was no surprise that he’d attracted Ar-Pharazôn’s attention, and Tigôn wondered how the King could have given him up. But he was glad of it. Aside from the kohl outlying Sûla’s eyes and a brushing of malachite on the lids, his face was bare of its usual paint. Two plaits of black hair were pulled away from his face and joined at the back of his head with a clip. The rest was worn in loose ringlets about his shoulders. He was garbed in his silk dancing trousers and, surprisingly, adorned with the jewelry that Tigôn thought had been taken from him in prison. The golden dragon curled ostentatiously about his bare bicep. Ah, that was perfect—just what they would need.  
  
Sûla stopped in the open area next to the fountain and adopted a wide stance, his back to Tigôn. Grasping his left fingers with his right hand, he stretched his arms over his head, swaying side to side. Then he bent and touched the floor with his palms. Tigôn watched the silk trousers mold tightly over Sûla’s shapely buttocks and felt a crawl of desire. For a moment he hesitated. What if Sûla rejected him? _No doubts,_ he told himself. He must act quickly before someone else came. “Sûla,” he whispered sharply.  
  
Sûla stood bolt upright, then turned to face him. Tigôn emerged from behind the pillar and gave him a tentative smile.  
  
Sûla’s eyes filled with knives. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Completely taken aback by his reaction, Tigôn glanced at the doorway. “There’s no one here yet. We can talk. How are you? Does your back still hurt?”  
  
“We are not permitted to speak. Now go, before I call the guards and have them haul you off to be flogged,” Sûla sneered. “I would enjoy seeing that.”  
  
“Sûla, what is the matter with you?”  
  
“You know full well, you bastard!” Sûla snarled. “That sweet face of yours . . . you cozened me like an expert! I never guessed. Well, no more. Now leave me!”  
  
Tigôn stood still, baffled into silence.  
  
“If you won’t go, then I shall,” Sûla huffed. He turned on his heel and began to walk out of the room.  
  
“What are you talking about?” Tigôn cried, although he was beginning to suspect the worst. He ran over to Sûla and seized him by the arm. “No, you cannot leave! Not until you talk to me.”  
  
“How dare you touch me!” Sûla snapped, jerking away.  
  
“How dare I?” Tigôn replied, suddenly flushed with hurt anger. “You didn’t mind when I did it before. We risked everything for our night together. Are you telling me it was all for naught?”  
  
“I belong to Lord Annatar now, a powerful sorcerer. He’s like to shrivel your stones if he hears about this.”  
  
At that, Tigôn lost his head. He grabbed Sûla by both arms and shook him. “Do you know what it’s been like for me since the trial? Do you know what I’ve endured? The snickers, the glares, the disgust! The other pages make obscene gestures at me whenever I come near. And half the citizens of Umbar think I’m a cheap lay and make eyes at me. The King himself grabbed a handful of my arse after your ordeal at the flogging post. I nearly puked right there. And all I’ve been able to think about is you!”  
  
“So, now you know what it’s like to be a zirâmîki,” Sûla said, as he tried to break away from Tigôn’s grasp.  
  
Sûla was agile as an eel, but Tigôn held on grimly and they twisted across the floor, flailing at each other. Sûla began kicking, trying to hook Tigôn’s legs out from under him and Tigôn shoved him hard up against one of the planters. Sûla grunted as his back hit the ceramic surface. He spat in Tigôn’s face.  
  
“You little shite!” Tigôn cried, and brought his knee up into Sûla’s groin, which made the zirâmîki double over, cursing. He lashed out, striking Tigôn in the gut. Then they went at it, hammer and tongs, punching and grappling, until Tigôn caught Sûla unbalanced and knocked him over. Sûla’s elbow struck the tile and he yelped in pain just as Tigôn flung himself onto his lover’s stomach, seizing his wrists and forcing them to the floor. Tigôn’s blood was up; he was breathing rapidly. “Talk to me,” he cried.  
  
“Get off!” Sûla snarled in his face. “Or I’ll use the freezing spell on you.”  
  
“Go ahead, do it,” Tigôn panted. “I dare you. The musicians will be here any minute, won’t they? How will you explain that little trick?”  
  
“Then I’ll leave. Get off me, traitor!” Sûla wriggled hard under Tigôn and almost unseated him, but Tigôn threw his whole weight into his hands holding Sûla down. “You’re not going anywhere until I have some answers. Tell me, how did I cozen you?”  
  
Sûla glared at him through a tangle of dark hair, his chest heaving. “I’ll tell you nothing unless you get up. Your touch disgusts me.”  
  
That hurt worse that the blows Sûla had landed. Tigôn relaxed his grip, sitting up. “Truly, Sûla?”  
  
“Yes,” Sûla said, staring up at Tigôn, his beautiful eyes narrowed in hatred.  
  
But as Tigôn shifted to slide off, he contacted a long ridge at Sûla’s groin. The revelation sent a corresponding pulse through Tigôn. “My touch disgusts you?” he said with a harsh laugh. “I think not.” He repositioned himself, pressing his own member hard against that alluring shape.  
  
Sûla twisted suddenly, throwing Tigôn to the side. Wriggling free, he leaned his back against the planter and brought his knees up, wrapping his arms about them. Like the mercurial creature he was, his expression shifted from hatred to despair. “Look what you’ve done,” he said, slapping dirt off his pants. “Annatar will know. He knows everything.” He shivered.  
  
“No, he doesn’t. Not if you don’t tell him,” Tigôn said. “Just don’t let him touch you. Don’t let him put you in his truthsayer’s circle.” He moved next to Sûla. Seeing how distraught the zirâmîki looked had taken the anger clean out of him.  
  
“Oh, you don’t know. You have no idea,” Sûla replied. “I hate you!”  
  
“I don’t believe that!” Tigôn said. “If so, then everything we did together is meaningless.”  
  
Sûla stared sullenly into space.  
  
“Tell me what happened,” Tigôn urged. “What did Annatar say to you? You owe me that much.”  
  
“You don’t know? Really?” Sûla said sarcastically. “You must be thick, or else you think I am.”  
  
“I assure you, I think nothing of the sort,” Tigôn replied.  
  
“You’re a liar. What did you promise me in prison? ‘I’ll never betray you, Sûla,’ you said. But you did, you did, you did.” Sûla put his face in his hands and his breathing caught and rattled, as if trying to suppress a sob.  
  
“I didn’t, I swear.”  
  
“Your promises are meaningless, just like everyone’s. All the world lies to me.”  
  
“What did Annatar tell you?”  
  
Sûla raised his head, eyebrows knit. “You were spying on me for Lord Nimruzîr, weren’t you? Don’t deny it, I know it to be true.”  
  
“How . . . ,” Tigôn started to say, then stopped. He remembered Annatar putting him in the truthsayer’s circle in his room the morning of the trial. There was a hole in his memory. That’s what had happened. “He took it from me,” he said, smacking his fist into his palm. “When I went to him to plead for his help with the trial. He took it from my thoughts without my knowledge.”  
  
“So, you don’t deny it!”  
  
“No,” Tigôn said softly. “It’s true and I wish it weren’t.”  
  
“Then we can never speak again,” Sûla said in a voice cold as death. “If you come near me, I swear I’ll tell the Zigûr.” He struggled to stand but Tigôn brought a hand heavily on his shoulder, keeping him in place.  
  
“Why do you think he told you about it, Sûla? Don’t you see what he’s trying to do?”  
  
“I don’t care what Annatar’s motives are. The truth is what matters here, and you lied to me from the beginning.” Tigôn could hear the pain in the zirâmîki’s voice.  
  
“Hear me out,” Tigôn said. “If after that you wish to throw away what we found in bed together, that’s your choice.”  
  
Sûla’s jaw twitched, but he slumped back down. “Better make it good,” he said. “I don’t have all day here.”  
  
“Neither do I,” Tigôn replied. “Lord Nimruzîr is expecting my return and I’ve risked much coming here. So yes, it’s true. I was spying for the Lords of Andúnië. We were fearful of the Zigûr and you, of all people, should know why. So they asked me to gather some information. But I never felt right about it, and I swear to you, Sûla, once we began to be friends, I stopped telling them anything. Before I went to see you in prison I went to Lord Nimruzîr and told him I couldn’t do it anymore. That’s when I begged him for the letter that enabled me to see you. If he hadn’t written it, the guards would not have allowed me to pass. So, he is not your enemy, Sûla. I am not your enemy. Look at me.”  
  
Slowly, Sûla raised his eyes. He said, “I have so many lies running around in my head, I don’t know who to believe anymore. You came to see me in prison, true enough. You came when no one else did and brought me food and a cloak. Why did you do that?”  
  
“Yes, that’s a good question. Why would I do that? What possible reason could I have to do that?”  
  
Sûla stared at his hands resting on his knees. He began twisting his golden ring set with rubies around his finger. “I don’t know.”  
  
“If I didn’t care, if I was only using you, do you think I would have come to see you? You were going on trial for murder. We all thought you’d be executed. Why would I risk seeing you when it might only reflect badly on me? Why would I speak up for you at the trial and risk everything, including my position and my family honor, in your defense?”  
  
There was a long silence. Sûla fidgeted. “Annatar said . . . .”  
  
“Annatar is only out for himself, Sûla. He’ll say anything to you. Surely you can see that.”  
  
“He told me that emotional entanglements, that’s how he put it, would only get in the way. And I’ve come to believe it’s true.”  
  
“In the way of what?”  
  
“My advancement.”  
  
“What kind of advancement does he have in mind?” Tigôn asked. “Because I can’t think that it would be anything good.”  
  
“Why not? Because I’m a zirâmîki?”  
  
“For bloody Ossë’s sake, Sûla, no! Because he’s not doing it out of kindness. He’s using you.”  
  
“ _You_   were using me,” Sûla reminded him. “The King used me and threw me away. Everyone uses me. That’s all I’m good for. Thinking you or anyone else had feelings for me was my worst mistake. So now I’ll take the Zigûr’s advice and turn my heart to stone.”  
  
“Do you truly want that? Do you? Because if so, I’ll walk away right now,” Tigôn said. He stood up. Sometimes you have to wager it all on the final throw. His heart was beating hard in his chest. An angry tear coursed down his face. What if Sûla wouldn’t forgive him? What then?  
   
**********  
Sûla watched the tear progress down Tigôn’s cheek, and realized that, far from turning to stone, his heart was made of fire.  Before he came into the solarium, he thought he’d settled his feelings for Tigôn, who he thought had betrayed him in the worst way. It was better to forget him and start over, just as Annatar wanted. But the messenger’s confession had rent aside his protective shield, and now he was confused, angry, and fearful all at once, making it hard to know what to do. Annatar would surely find out about this. He had an urge to run away from all of them, Tigôn, Annatar, Ar-Pharazôn, and take up residence in a cave.      
  
Then he heard voices down the hall and a light tap-tap, rattle of drums. Startled, both he and Tigôn turned their heads towards the noise.    
  
“That’s the musicians who play for me,” Sûla said.  “Lord Annatar has given me leave to exercise every day.  He’s says it’s good for me to keep supple.”  
  
Tigôn rose to his feet.  “We need to hide in a place where we can talk. I saw a door on the other side, just past the bushes down there.  Come!”  The voices drew nearer.  “Quickly now,” Tigôn said.  
  
Their feet thudded across the mosaic floor patterned with a huge, naked Lord Ossë blowing a shell in the surf. They sped past the splashing fountain, the potted trees and the pillars.  “Here,” Tigôn said, opening a door in the wall behind one of the pillars. He entered, pulling Sûla after him, and carefully shut it. The only light came from the cracks around the doorframe.  At first it was pitch black. Tentatively, Sûla felt the floor with his bare feet, fearful of stepping on something.   
  
Tigôn was breathing heavily from their run. Sûla could smell a spicy heat coming from him.  The messenger moved at his side, shuffling his feet and there was a soft clunk. “Ow!” Tigôn whispered.  “Oh, it’s a broom.”   
  
Sûla heard him carefully setting the handle against the wall.  There was a rasping sound as it slid again and Tigôn swore.  Sûla tried to suppress a giggle and couldn’t. “C-careful,” he said, “we’re in a tool shed. There’s more here ready to bite your clumsy arse.”  He heard Tigôn’s answering snort of laughter. “Shut up,” Sûla whispered, “they’ll hear us.”  He leaned back against the wall and encountered a hook so that he had to shift sideways.    
  
“Shut up, yourself,” Tigôn replied, but his choked breathing continued, threatening to erupt out of control any moment. Sûla fumbled at Tigôn’s face, trying to cover his mouth with his hand, and instead poked him in the eye.   
  
“Ow, thanks for blinding me,” Tigôn said and he elbowed Sûla in the ribs.   
  
“Toad!” Sûla whispered, sending them both into more paroxysms of silent laughter.    
  
Tigôn stepped on something else that fell with a clunk and, unbalanced, lurched against Sûla, clinging to his waist. For a dangerous moment, they swayed. Sûla’s upper back connected quietly with the wall and he felt Tigôn’s weight land against him.  “Uh!” Sûla grunted and then he snickered.  
  
“Sûla!”  The faint call came from the far end of the solarium.       
  
They froze.    
  
“Idiot! Don’t move,” Sûla whispered.  He felt Tigôn’s smooth cheek against his—he must have shaved that morning. His pleasant masculine odor went straight to Sûla’s loins. Their chests were pressed together, shuddering with suppressed laughter and down below . . . he could feel every little shift of Tigôn’s hips, and just as earlier on the floor, the hardened length of his cock lying astride his own.   
  
Long moments crept by, quelling their laughter. They clung to each other and strained to listen.   
  
Tigôn’s breath huffed softly in Sûla’s ear and with one finger he started caressing a strip of bare skin on Sûla’s back, between his low-riding silk trousers and his vest. The touch hovered between erotic and ticklish. Then the messenger’s fingers spread to encompass Sûla’s buttocks. Through the fabric he felt Tigôn’s finger delineating the divide in his cheeks—a feathery light motion, stroking up and down, creating a warm, tingling sensation with each brush against sensitive skin.  Sûla inhaled a gasp. He should not want this, but he did, oh he did.   
  
There was another call for Sûla, closer now. Footsteps sounded on the tile outside.  Several more calls, one near their hiding place.  “Sûla, are you playing with us?” Sûla thought it was Gimilbâr, one of the drummers.   
  
“I guess he didn’t come this morning,” someone else said.  
  
Sûla held his breath and felt Tigôn do likewise.  The scuff and squeak of feet receded and then it grew quiet.   
  
For several long minutes they stood unbalanced against each other, tensely listening. Then they heard more voices in the distance. A faint drumbeat started up, soon joined by two  more drums, one higher in pitch and one deeper, swelling into a compelling rhythm.    
  
“I guess they decided to practice anyway,” Sûla whispered.  
  
“We’re trapped here for a while, then,” Tigôn replied.      
  
“Yeah,” Sûla said. He couldn’t help smiling. As one, their bodies relaxed. Tigôn’s hands resumed their exploration of Sûla’s arse and the zirâmîki melted into the sensation, flexing his hips against Tigôn to the beat of the drums. Back and forth, back and forth they undulated against one another, each movement calling forth a rush of sensation.   
  
Sûla felt a wet tongue on his earlobe, then heard soft breathing and little metallic clicks. Tigôn was chewing on his earring. That felt delightful. “Mmm,” Sûla moaned as their hips continued their maddening dance against each other.  Tigôn’s mouth left Sûla’s earring and moved gently along his jaw.   
  
When their lips touched, Sûla felt overwhelmed by a shooting sensation, like tingling honey. There was no doubt that Tigôn wanted him, no lies in the movement of his lips, in the relaxed curves of his back, or the grip of his arms.  So tender was that kiss, so full of the depth of Tigôn’s desire that Sûla found himself yielding, as if he were butter melting in the sun. This was what he wanted, how it should be.  Sûla opened to him, took in his tongue and then they were tasting each other, over and over again, as if they could join together into one being through their mouths.     
  
While they kissed, Sûla began hiking up Tigôn’s long tunic until he eased his hands under it to feel his bare back.  His skin was smooth and hot.  The twin columns of his back muscles hard. Tigôn pulled away and Sûla could feel him fumbling at his front, trying to unbutton Sûla’s vest.     
  
With a chuckle, Sûla pushed him away and undid the buttons himself and took off his vest hanging it from the nearby hook, while moving his feet and situating himself better against the wall.  By now he could see somewhat in the dark. There was a ripple of movement and a rustle of clothing as Tigôn undid his laces, pulled his own tunic over his head, and then took Sûla in his arms again. Their chests connected in a haze of warm skin and soft gasps of delight.    
 ******  
Tigôn’s head dipped as his mouth descended to Sûla’s chest. The zirâmîki threaded his fingers in those abundant curls, shuddered when lips found his nipples, pulling and sucking, and even more when the messenger’s warm tongue lapped in a soft, swirling motion.  Good, so good. He wanted that mouth lower, more.  He pressed on Tigôn’s  head, urging him down and Tigôn obliged, nipping and tonguing his belly. Oh yes.  
  
It was annoying not being able to move much, propped against the wall.  He would rather be lying in a big soft bed.  The sound of the drums was good though—they throbbed in his blood, making his limbs tingle and dance to the beat. It was so arousing. If he ever became a lord, he would commission drummers next to his bedroom. Tigôn’s lips paused maddeningly at his waistband. Sûla gave him a grunt of encouragement and then the messenger grasped his inner thigh and began kissing him through his trousers, pressing his mouth up and down his cock, mouthing him, turning the cloth damp. Sûla had enough presence of mind to worry about stains, but then that problem went away with a tug on the tie at his waist. His trousers jerked down, catching on his erection, and then there was nothing between him and an eager mouth.    
  
“By the gods, Tigôn, are you sure you want to . . .?”  Sûla asked.  
  
Tigôn’s answer was to engulf him completely in the moist heat between the arch of his palate and a sinfully mobile tongue. A whisper of teeth encircled the base of his cock.  The feeling sent shock waves of pleasure shooting through Sûla’s loins.  He played with Tigôn’s hair and leaned back against the wall, biting his lip to keep from moaning. Tigôn was trying out various tricks Sûla had shown him during their night together: sucking hard, taking him all the way down, then pulling back up and lapping at the underside of his tender head.  Sûla thought he should tell him to slow down a bit, and then he imagined how much fun it would be to train him to do it better, and then he couldn’t think much at all.    
  
Sûla realized he was slowly sliding down the wall; he spread out his arms to brace himself and started to rise, then reflected that making a sudden move like that whilst teeth surrounded a vulnerable part of his anatomy was not a very good idea. “Wait, I’m slipping,” he whispered.  “Come back up here.”   
  
Tigôn released him and kissed a steamy path back up his belly and chest until he reached Sûla’s mouth. He tasted of a musky tang that Sûla couldn’t resist.    
  
“Did I do it right?” Tigôn whispered.    
  
“Perfectly,” Sûla said and gently bit his lip.  Tigôn pulled him close, so they were pressed together the length of their bodies. Sûla noticed that while Tigôn had been pleasuring him, he’d removed his own cock from his breeches. Sûla thrilled to the touch of that throbbing hot skin on his.  He reached down and fondled them together in his hand, feeling the moisture and slip of skin over rock-hard shafts and was rewarded with Tigôn’s groan of pure lust.  He unfastened the top button on Tigôn’s trousers and pushed them down, along with his linen loincloth.  Then he took up their pricks again, rubbing them together.    
  
“Sûla, ah, you’ve made me . . . I want you.  Um, I know this isn’t the best . . . oh gods, please.”   
  
Sûla kissed him hard, sucking on his tongue, and devouring his mouth.  He wondered if their lips would look kiss-swollen later. He should be careful; this was not wise.  “Your turn,” he whispered.  “Lean on the wall, here.  Watch out for the hook.”  
  
Dropping down gracefully, he took Tigôn’s shaft in his mouth, enjoying the feel of it, inhaling his scent, feeling the tickle of hair on his nose.  He was rewarded by a groan and a burst of fluid. Unlike the King, Tigôn tasted sweet. Bracing himself against Tigôn’s leg, Sûla gently kneaded the messenger’s sacs with one hand and worked him in a way that he knew to be particularly effective.  Tigôn’s hand eased into Sûla’s hair, cupped the back of his head. He was gasping as he thrust into Sûla’s mouth.   
  
After some time, Sûla’s thighs began trembling with the strain of crouching. He pulled off and stood up, pressing their groins together as he nuzzled Tigôn’s neck.  “Are you close?”    
  
“Yes, rather,” Tigôn panted. “I’d like to get inside you.”    
  
“Not a good idea. We don’t have any oil,” Sûla said. “I want to be able to walk straight.”    
  
“I think I’m going to die if I can’t take you,” Tigôn replied.   
  
“Thrust between my legs,” Sûla said.  He gave him one more kiss, then turned and braced himself with one hand against the wall.  Tigôn pressed up behind and Sûla spit in his hand, reached down and wet him with saliva, and then closed his thighs tightly about him. The messenger grasped him about the chest and began to move, sliding back and forth in the same rhythm as the insistent drumbeat outside. Feeling that weight and warmth against his backside, Sûla felt emotionally close to him at that moment, as if this was what they were made for, to do this together. And more.  He didn’t want it to end. Reaching down, he took himself in hand, stroking hard.  Tigôn was saying, “Oh Sûla,” over and over against his ear. Then he groaned, tightened his grip about Sûla’s chest, and his thrusts grew erratic against Sûla’s newly slippery thighs. Knowing that Tigôn had found his release triggered an unexpected wave of pleasure and Sûla increased his efforts, following soon afterwards in an explosion of delight.   
******  
Colored lights burst in his vision, dancing to the drumbeat.  
  
For a long moment they clung to each other.   
  
“Thank you,” Tigôn panted against his neck.  “That was . . . I needed that.”    
  
Sûla wiped his hand on the wall and turned.  Tigôn fell into his arms and they kissed each other, slowly, thoroughly, making the buzz of good feelings last. But as his head cleared of lust, Sûla realized what a mistake this had been.  Annatar would know, he was sure of it.    
  
“Let me . . . fix . . . , I need your loincloth,” he whispered as he reached down and grasped a portion of it and used it to wipe off his thighs. Then, he pulled up his trousers, doing up the tie, and fastening his vest.  Tigôn was doing the same, putting his clothes back together.    
  
“We should not have done that,” Sûla said.   
  
Outside, the drummers had rolled to a dramatic finish and now appeared to be leaving. There was laughter, talking, pit-pats of drum beats here and there, slowly dying off in the distance.  Then finally silence.      
  
************  
          
Tigôn was giddy with happiness.  He took Sûla in his arms again, stroked his hands down his back, fondled that delectable rear, and kissed him. “I don’t care,” he said.   
  
“You may in the future,” Sûla replied.  “Our masters would not take kindly to this if they knew.”  
  
“Our masters are wrong,” Tigôn replied.  He bent to Sûla’s ear. “I love you. Run away with me.”    
  
Sûla laughed.   
  
“I’m not joking,” Tigôn said.  “I thought about it last night.  It’s the only way we can be together.”  
  
“Do you know what you’re saying?” Sûla said sadly. “I’m a slave, or have you forgotten? You saw how well it worked to run to my aunt. They would hunt me down and hang me for certain this time.  Besides, what would we do in Umbar besides sell our sweet young bodies in some den?”  
  
“No, I don’t mean now. I’m thinking we’ll run after we make port in Rómenna.”     
  
There was a heavy pause. “You’re mad.” Sûla pulled away from him. “I’ve got to go.”  
  
“Hear me out,” Tigôn continued breathlessly, hanging onto his arm, and reeling him back in. “Once we disembark, you should have a day or two before the march to Armenelos. You must obtain leave to go to the market area. I’m sure you can find a reason to go, something that Annatar needs for his potions. Go just at dusk. There is a shop there called The Eagle Eye where we can meet.  It’s owned by a friend of my father.  His name is Akhâsadûn and he deals in gold and precious stones. You can sell your dragon there so we can buy passage to Andúnië in the west.  We should still have some gold left to give us a start.  I have an aunt named Azrabêth, who runs a tavern by the docks. I’m sure she would take us in.  We could work there and we could be happy together.”  
  
He felt the resistance in Sûla’s body. “Tigôn, this idea has as many holes as a fishing net,” Sûla snorted. “The Zigûr went to some trouble to obtain my services and I doubt he would take it well if I ran off. He would send hunters or  post a big reward and then your aunt would turn us in, just as mine did.”          
  
“No, she won’t. You don’t know her. She’s rather eccentric and she doesn’t hold with slavery at all. She caused a bit of a scandal in the family because she ran away on her wedding day . . . with another woman.”    
  
Sûla chuckled.  “I think I like her already.”   
  
“She would _love_ you,” Tigôn said enthusiastically. “I know it. And Andúnië is far away from Armenelos. We will take other names and keep our heads down until they forget about us.”  
  
“What about your family?  Surely they will seek you?  And Lord Nimruzîr?  You can’t just leave his service like that.”              
  
“I’ll find a way to tell them, once things settle down.”   
  
“Do you know what the Lord Annatar has offered me?” Sûla asked. “Power, wealth, influence. People would fear me.  How can I say no to that and instead run off in some puff-fish scheme? What can you offer?”  
  
Tigôn grasped him by the back of the neck, pulling him into a scorching kiss.  At first Sûla tensed, but Tigôn persisted and suddenly they were kissing greedily, deeply. Tigôn put his arms about him and Sûla clutched at him. When they finally separated, Tigôn said, “That.  He can’t offer that, Sûla.”   
  
“No,” Sûla sighed.  “I guess he can’t. What should I do?  He’ll know.  He can read my mind.”  
  
“Not if you don’t let him,” Tigôn said.  “As I said before, don’t let him put you in his truthsayer’s circle. Play your part. Don’t give him a reason to suspect. I know you’re strong.  I saw you stand up against Korizar at Arzog’s Pass.  You were frightening!  And you made the King believe you lusted for him, when I know you didn’t care a fig. You can smile, make your face lie like a good little slave, until it’s time . . . .”  
  
“It will be at least two fortnights on the ship, cooped up together like chickens. It’s hard to keep secrets.”  
  
“Actually, I think it will be easier.  There will be men around you at all times making it hard for the Zigûr to start asking you questions.  Sleep in the hold with the men.”  
  
“Ha,” Sûla replied. “And what shall we do if one of our ships is late and we miss each other?”  
  
“We’re traveling as the King’s escort, I doubt we’ll become separated and if we do, we’ll come up with another plan,” Tigôn said.                 
  
“This is folly,” Sûla said unhappily. “I can think of a hundred things that could go wrong.”  
  
“You are the one who likes to play dice,” Tigôn said. “Take a chance, Sûla. Roll the bones. Pray to Zizzûn, your master of fate.”    
  
There was a long silence.  Then Sûla took up Tigôn’s hand, entwining their fingers.  “You would do this for me?” he said softly.  “You would give up your position, leave your family—for me?”  
  
“Yes,” Tigôn replied softly. “I’ve thought about it.  I’ve already disgraced my family. I’m scorned at court. I might as well join my black sheep aunt and start fresh.” He leaned forward kissing those alluring lips.  “I decided last night.  No matter what they say, they can’t make me feel differently than I do about you. Just think, we could make love all night long in a big feather bed.  We could be together.”  
   
Sûla chuckled.  “I thought seducing men was my specialty.”  
  
“Am I doing it well enough? Are you convinced?”  
  
“It’s madness . . .”  Sûla clicked his tongue.  
  
“Do you not care for me, Sûla?  If you do, you must make up your mind now as I doubt we’ll have a chance to speak again before we sail on the morrow.  Can I trust you to meet me in Rómenna?”  
  
There was a pause. Sûla sighed.  He clutched Tigôn tightly and then nodded his head against Tigôn’s cheek.  “I will be there. The Eagle Eye in Rómenna, you said?”  
  
“Yes. Don’t forget. Swear to me by your god of fate that you will come.”  
  
“By Zizzûn, I swear.”  Sûla clasped his forearm. “And now you swear as well, by your gods.”  
  
“By Manwë and all the Valar and Eru Ilúvatar himself, I swear to keep faith with you,” Tigôn said. “And you must promise something else—that no matter what anyone tells you, particularly the Zigûr, you must  not doubt my affections.”  
  
“I swear,” Sûla said.  Tigôn put his arms around him and gave him a lingering kiss that Sûla tried to memorize so he could take courage from it during the long voyage oversea.  He sighed as they separated.   
  
Tigôn felt a sudden, stinging jab under his arm. “Ow!” he cried, jerking away. “Something bit me!”  
  
“Bit you?” Sûla sounded puzzled. “How can that be?  We need some light.”  
  
With a creak, Sûla opened the door and light flooded the tiny storeroom.  Tigôn pushed up his sleeve and looked at his arm.  Sure enough, there were two tiny red marks on the underside of his bicep.  “I must have cut it on your arm band,” Tigôn said.   
  
Sûla frowned, sliding his hand over the dragon. “There’s nothing sharp on this.”      
  
“Perhaps it was an ant, then,” Tigôn said, rubbing the sting out of his skin. “I saw some walking around earlier.  Well, it’s no matter. Two fortnights is a long time, but it will come to an end.  Stay strong and true.”  
  
“And you,” Sûla said.  “We’ve tarried far too long, now. You go first.  I’ll bide for a bit and then follow.”  
  
“Farewell,” Tigôn called.  He leaned over and gave him a final kiss, then turned away and broke into a trot.  He paused at the fountain and looked back. Sûla was staring forlornly at him with one hand covering his dragon bracelet. Tigôn waved and ran from the room. He was excited.  This would work.  It must.     
  
************  
Akhâsadûn - invented name composed of canon Adûnaic akhâs - chasm and adûn - the west  
Azrabêth – invented name from canon Adûnaic meaning sea-sayer.    
Gimilbâr - canon Adûnaic meaning star lord.   
***************                  
  



	29. Bite of the Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sûla discovers that something is very wrong with his armband. He tries to help Tigôn while keeping Annatar from learning about their tryst in the solarium.

Watching Tigôn’s buoyant stride as he disappeared through the solarium doorway, Sûla almost wished that he could have gone on believing that his friend had betrayed him. At least then his path would be clear. The plan Tigôn had dangled before him, that the two of them would run off to live blissfully together in Andúnië was a future Sûla wanted in a way that was almost physically painful. But he knew better than to hope. He had never been well served by trusting or being trustworthy. Annatar would find out what they had done. The very thought turned his stomach.  
  
And now there was a new worry. He lifted his arm to glare at the sleek, golden beast that curled around his bicep. Currently, it appeared to be nothing more than a finely-wrought piece of jewelry. He twisted the band off his arm and held it up to the light. Was it alive?  
  
“What did the Zigûr do to you? And why did you bite Tigôn?” He shook it hard. There was no answer, which, when he thought about it, Sûla realized was good. Zizzûn only knew what he would have done if it had spoken. What was he going to do with the thing? He couldn’t get rid of it. Selling it in Rómenna was key to the success of Tigôn’s plan and if he sold it in Umbar now, Annatar would notice its absence, especially after the fuss he’d made to get it back. Had it heard them plotting? If so, could it somehow tell Annatar?  
  
“Don’t worry,” he told it sternly. “That messenger was just a bit of fun. I have no intention of meeting him or of selling you. I know what a good master I have.”  
  
The dragon’s ruby eyes glittered in the light, just as they always did. Sûla decided he’d worry about it later; now he needed to return to Annatar’s chambers.  
  
He stopped at the servants’ baths to wash off the evidence of his encounter with Tigôn. As he stripped off his clothes, Sûla remembered with a delighted shiver the pleasure of his lover’s voice husking in his ear, his hands and mouth in the dark. Tigôn was his izrê, his beloved. How would he endure the next two fortnights without him? Quickly, he stepped into the tepid pool and rinsed off.  
  
While drying himself with a cotton cloth, he glanced in the mirror, then looked more closely, alarmed at how plainly his emotions were showing. He must be careful not to have these thoughts when he was with the Zigûr. The sorcerer had known immediately what had happened when Dulginzin attacked him in the camp. How much could Annatar know from him if he wasn’t standing in the truthsayer’s circle? What would he do if Annatar attempted to read his mind? He must bury thoughts of Tigôn’s plan deeply. The shop in Rómenna where they were supposed to meet was called the Eagle Eye. He needed to fix that name into his head in a way that Annatar couldn’t understand. He pressed his fingers to his temples and pictured the vast white cliffs of the port of Rómenna with swirls of gulls squawking in the wind, heard the sigh of waves breaking on the rocks, smelled sunlight, fish, seaweed, and tar. Perched on the rocks high above, a large eagle winked back at him.  
  
When he’d thoroughly buried his thoughts, he touched up his eye-paint, plaited his unruly hair into one braid, then took a deep breath. Well then, time to face up to his master. He left the bathing chambers, pausing outside in the corridor. Now what should he do? Would the Zigûr be dining with the King this evening? Perhaps not. Everyone was readying to take ship on the morrow. He should get the Zigûr some supper, just in case. 

*********

  
  
Sûla entered the bustling, steamy kitchen, picked up a tray and stood in line with the other servants at one of the tables, while craning his neck to see what was on offer today.  
  
One of the cooks dishing up the ubiquitous Umbarian fish stew eyed him intently. The man was short and ugly with a red, unshaven face, a lumpy nose, and grey hair pulled back in a queue. Annoyed, Sûla lowered his eyes, but when he looked up again, the cook was still staring.  
  
“Is there something you want?” Sûla said.  
  
“You’re the King’s zirâmîki. The one they tried for murder and then flogged,” the man replied.  
  
“What of it?”  
  
“They say you belong to the Zigûr now.”  
  
Sûla nodded and attempted to move on to the bread table, but the man laid a hand on his arm. “They say he’s invented a potion to renew youth and cure ills. Is it so?”  
  
Everyone around him stopped what they were doing and turned with intent expressions. So, the word had gone around. Not surprising. It was the same at Armenelos. Schooled as he was in court intrigue and in keeping secrets revealed in the King’s bed, Sûla knew better than to say anything. Instead, he rolled his eyes. “How should I know? I’m only a servant. Now unhand me or I’ll tell my master who caused the delay in getting his meal.”  
  
The cook grunted and withdrew his hand. “Forgive me, young master. Let me make it up to you. They say the Zigûr likes cheese. He’s always sending some mîki down to the kitchen for some. An unusual blue variety has just come in that he might like. Would you care to follow me?”  
  
Sûla hesitated. Perhaps a little bribe would not go ill with Annatar. And he needed every advantage he could get just now. ‘Young master,’ the man had called him. Sûla liked the sound of that much better than the names he was usually called. “Very well,” he said.  
  
The cook handed the soup ladle to another server and then led Sûla through the boisterous kitchens and down a narrow set of stairs. The man had a gimpy leg, forcing him to go down sideways like a crab, one step at a time.  
  
“May I introduce myself,” the man wheezed as he descended. “I’m Burôda son of Kirib, assistant to the head cook. And by your look and your speech, you are Umbarian. Are you not?”  
  
Sûla nodded. They reached the bottom of the stair that led to a cold cellar, where the kitchen sounds were faint and far away. Burôda limped down an aisle. On either side well-stocked shelves rose to the ceiling. They were hemmed in by rack upon rack of wine casks and bottles, dimly illuminated by flickering lamps.  
  
“Well, Umbarian, you have come up in the world for one so young,” Burôda said, “First you were a bedwarmer for the King . . .”  
  
“His cupbearer,” Sûla corrected.  
  
Burôda chuckled. “As you say. And now personal servant to the greatest sorcerer ever known. What is your secret?”  
  
“Zizzûn has had his way with me,” Sûla replied. “My luck has gone up. Then down. Then up again. I suffered a whipping and disgrace to be where I am now.”  
  
“Ah.” Burôda put a finger aside his misshapen nose. “Gifts from our Lord Zizzûn, he who rolls the bones, always have a price. Tell me, Lucky One, what is it like to serve the Zigûr?”  
  
“A position. No more,” Sûla replied.  
  
“He’s very clever they say. There are those who worshiped him hereabouts before the Númenórean King took him captive. Of course, I wouldn’t know myself.”  
  
“It’s best not to ask too many questions.”  
  
“Hmmm,” Burôda replied. “I never put much stock in the stories people told about him before, but I know some who were there at your trial.” He lowered his voice. “They say he took the shape of a dragon. Life size, it was. Them as saw it said he was terrifying. Is that so?”  
  
“It is,” Sûla replied.  
  
“Does he scare the paint off you, sweet boy?”  
  
“No,” Sûla lied.  
  
“So then, you can talk to him? Ask questions?”  
  
“After a fashion.” Sûla couldn’t help preening a bit.  
  
“Good.” Burôda came to a stop. “Here we are at last.”  
  
They stood in an open area surrounded by more shelves stocked with foodstuffs of all kinds: dusty jars of preserves and spices, sacks of flour, bins of nuts, onions, and garlic. One wall held large wheels of cheese, encased in wax or cloth, resting in slotted shelves. The Regent had been well provisioned.  
  
Sûla set his tray on a wooden table while the cook pulled a wheel out of its slot. Grunting under its weight, he thumped it down next to the tray. He peeled back the cloth, cut a thin slice from it, riddled with blue-colored pockmarks, and offered it to Sûla on the edge of the knife. “What do you think?”  
  
The smell was rather pungent for Sûla’s taste, but it had a strong, nutty flavor and creamy texture. Annatar would like it. He nodded. The man set about cutting out a generous slice and putting it on Sûla’s tray. Then he set the knife down and rewrapped the cheese.  
  
“I’ll be sure to tell his Lordship about your gift,” Sûla said, as he lifted the tray to head back up the stairs.  
  
But the cook stood in his path. “Hold on, young master. I wish a favor in return.”  
  
“What favor?” Sûla asked suspiciously.  
  
“Tell me, what would it take to get some of the Zigûr’s curative?”  
  
“I told you, I know nothing about it,” Sûla snapped.  
  
The man grimaced. “Don’t play the fool with me. I heard it direct from another cook who talked with Dâurphursâr, the Regent’s food taster. He tried the brew the Zigûr made and said it cured all his aches and pains. It has to be true; he was kicking about like a youngster. And,” he eyed Sûla, “he said you drank it too, and right before his eyes it cured up all those whip marks on your back. That’s something special, that is. Now, look here.” Setting his hand on the table to steady himself, he lifted his foot encased in a leather sandal. The joints on his toes were swollen huge and knobby, the toenails cracked and yellow. “You see this? I’m all big with the gout,” Burôda said. “It’s come to the point where I can scarcely stand. So long hours in th’ kitchen’s right agony. I would pay quite a bit for a taste of the Zigûr’s magic.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth against his fingers.  
  
Sûla shook his head.  
  
“Two abarîm? Three?”  
  
“No amount of money will suffice,” Sûla said. “Excuse me, I’m late already and my master will be displeased.”  
  
The cook’s knuckles whitened around the edge of the table. “I’m desperate. Name your price, zirâmîki.”  
  
“Oh, so it’s zirâmîki now, is it.” Sûla glared at him. “I warn you not to try anything with me. It will not get you the desired result.”  
  
The cook looked hard at Sûla, then ponderously sank to the floor, clutching at Sûla’s knees. “Have pity on me, friend,” he whined. “I have a daughter. Her louse-ridden husband has run off, leaving her and the baby to bide with me. I’m their sole support, but my feet can’t take no more.”  
  
“I have some hard luck stories of my own,” Sûla replied with a shake of the head. “But the answer is no. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. There is no more of the potion. The King had the last of it, and I assure you, nothing I can say would move the Zigûr to brew more if he didn’t wish to.” That was not quite true. He’d watched Annatar pack up the last of the elixir into two large jars sealed with wax—for the King’s personal use. Sûla was not about to touch it. “I can’t help you,” he said. “Petition the King.”  
  
“As if that would do me any good,” Burôda snarled. “Aren’t you shoving off tomorrow? It’s all for the lords and none for us, huh, slave? Shouldn’t we have our share too?”  
  
“It’s not a fair world,” Sûla said harshly, “as I learned when my aunt betrayed me to the Red Cloaks and nearly got me hanged. Out of my way.”  
  
But the man would not release his knees and commenced weeping piteously. Sûla tried to pull free, but Burôda swiftly reached up to the table top and grabbed the knife, bringing the point to Sûla’s groin.  
  
Sûla reacted instantly, almost without thinking. “Burôda!” he cried, and the words of the freezing spell rose almost by themselves from his tongue and roared past his lips. The man knelt there, eyes lifted in shock, frozen in place.  
  
Suddenly, Sûla was overcome by the urge to be sick. Easing away from the knife still held in Burôda’s hand, he set down the tray abruptly on the table, then ran to the corner and puked on the floor. The heaving sensation in his stomach continued for many moments longer, along with a blinding headache that slowly dissipated. By the gods, Annatar would know for certain. Sûla had already seen how he could sense any use of the magic. He felt a strange tickling on his upper arm, looked down. To his horror, the dragon blinked and opened its mouth, revealing two tiny pin-like teeth.  
  
“Did you bite him too?” Sûla cried. But the beast merely froze back into an innocent bit of ostentatious jewelry.  
  
Sûla’s knees turned to water. He grabbed the edge of a shelf to keep from falling and began to shake. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he returned to the table, and bent to examine Burôda. There appeared to be two minute red punctures on the cook’s forehead. If he hadn’t known to look, he would never have noticed them. Better run like a rat. Now. Sûla grabbed Annatar’s dinner tray and fled, pausing only long enough to take a bottle of wine, no better make that two, from the racks.

******

  
  
Mairon stifled a yawn. How long would he have to sit here listening to the Umbarian dross whine at the King? Ar-Pharazôn had commanded Mairon to be at his side in case a truthsayer was needed while listening to townspeople’s petitions, and Mairon was more than happy to prove his worth. He’d drawn his chalk circle on the tile in front of the King’s dais, but so far there had been little call for his skills. Most of the requests were for recompense for damages caused by drunken Númenórean warriors celebrating their final days of freedom in Umbar’s taverns—fairly straightforward as the King gave the petitioners half of what they requested and bid them be happy that those same warriors had so freely spent their wages in Umbar, not to mention saving the townspeople from becoming vassals of the Haradrim.  
  
Robed all in black with his hair pulled severely back from his face, Mairon sat on the dais, slightly behind the King’s chair. From there he lapped up the whiff of fear he could sense from the Umbarians as they approached and averted their eyes not from the King, but from him. If the supplicants so much as blinked in protest at the King’s decisions, Mairon amused himself by transmuting his face to the image of a hideous black dragon. The King couldn’t see it, but those poor Umbarian merchants could. They blanched and fell to their knees. Mairon watched Ar-Pharazôn’s satisfied expression. Ha!  
  
On the King’s other side sat Lord Azgarad, fingering the patch of beard on his chin. He looked up and caught Mairon watching him and his expression hardened. That one was no fool. Azgarad knew who was behind his sudden change in position from King’s Steward to Regent of Umbar. Mairon drew his lips back from his teeth in a snarl. Azgarad’s eyes narrowed and Mairon quickly schooled his expression. That was one enemy neatly out of his way. For now. He glanced over at Aphanuzîr, the new Steward, who seemed uncomfortable in his new position. Mairon gently clawed his fingernails over his silk-clad thighs, thinking.  
  
Suddenly, his hands and nose tingled and a name faintly hissed in his ears. Feeling along the power lines, he sensed the source and his lips quirked. Every time Sûla used the freezing spell, the boy fell more deeply under his power. But it was dangerous for him to use it so often. Mairon wasn’t ready for others to find out about his gifts to the zirâmîki. Not yet.  
  
Mairon cleared his throat and Ar-Pharazôn turned to him. “Are we nearly finished here?” Mairon said softly. “I have preparations to make before we sail on the morrow.” He sent the King a subtle flow of fatigue and a vision of his inviting bed.  
  
Ar-Pharazôn nodded, covering a yawn. “It has been a long day.” He waved at his scribe, Aglahad. “Send the rest away.”  
  
Aglahad set down his quill and stood. “Petitions are closed for the day,” he announced. Despondently, the remaining Umbarians stepped out of line and headed for the doors.  
  
Lord Azgarad glared at Mairon, his eyes like beads.

******

  
  
When Mairon entered his bronze-sheathed room, Sûla rose abruptly from the chair by the fire and bowed. He bent to set a wine cup down on a low table, his single braid of wavy, jet-black hair sliding forward over one shoulder. Mairon noted a flicker of emotion, apprehension perhaps, on his face before it smoothed into a look of solicitude.  
  
“Oh, you’re back, my Lord. I brought some supper,” Sûla said. He indicated the table, which was laid out neatly with a covered dish, a basket of bread, a small flagon of oil, a knife, spoon, goblet, and a napkin.  
  
Mairon went over and lifted the cover revealing a bowl of soup filled with chunks of fish, clams, potatoes, and leeks. Next to it under a napkin, lay a large slice of white cheese with blue marbling. How delightful! He leaned over to inhale the delicious fragrances and his stomach rumbled. Sûla moved deftly to his side, pouring out some wine from a pitcher. Mairon noticed a faint red blotch on the boy’s neck just under his ear. Interesting. Sûla’s eyes were averted so he couldn’t read them, but Mairon was getting a sense of anxiety. Perhaps it was residue from using the spell.  
  
“I’ve been waiting for you for some time, my Lord, and I fear the stew is cold,” the boy said. “I can warm it up if you like?”  
  
Mairon nodded. Sûla picked up the bowl in both hands and tucked it into a hob by the fire while Mairon sat down at the table. He cut a slice of the cheese, tasted it, then closed his eyes in bliss. Rich and creamy with a sharp flavor that made his mouth water. Really, it was such a shame that cows died in Mordor.  
  
“Do you like it, my Lord?” Sûla asked.  
  
He sounded eager to please. Different from the sullen youth with whip weals that he’d bathed only a sennight ago. “You are learning my tastes,” Mairon said. “Most gratifying.”  
  
The corners of his servant’s mouth moved upward, but his eyes remained troubled.  
  
“You used the spell, again,” Mairon said.  
  
Sûla paused, glanced down, then nodded, tight-lipped. “There was a cook, a man named . . .”  
  
“Burôda. Yes, I heard that much.” Mairon gestured at the bread, and Sûla cut him a slice, then poured a dollop of olive oil on a small plate. Mairon dipped the bread in it and took a bite. The oil was flavored with rosemary, which tasted delightful. “Tell me what happened.”  
  
“He said he had a new shipment of cheese that you might like and took me to the cellar. But he wanted a favor in exchange.”  
  
“Of course he did. Let me guess. He has aches and pains. He wanted some of the elixir.”  
  
Sûla’s eyes widened slightly. “How did you know?”  
  
“Wasn’t it inevitable that the word would spread, once the servants knew? This is what we want.” Mairon chewed and swallowed.  
  
“It is?”  
  
“Yes. It will be good for rumors to circulate. More power and awe for Númenor.” And for me, he thought. He raised the goblet to his lips, inhaled the fruity aroma, then took a taste. Very good. On the dry side with a hint of smoky oak. It mixed well with the cheese. He had to admit he was enjoying the sensations this body afforded him, especially since the elf was no longer giving him trouble. Well, perhaps not as much as before. He still had strange dreams filled with a sense of yearning that must come from the trapped fëa. Mostly, it was annoying and yet he couldn’t help being affected. He would have to find a way to quell this weakness.  
  
Sûla picked up a cloth and used it to remove the bowl of stew from the hob. Carefully, he set it steaming in front of Mairon, who dipped up a spoonful. Ummm, just the right amount of garlic and basil in the broth.  
  
“Is it good, my Lord?” Sûla asked.  
  
Mairon nodded and continued eating while Sûla stood attentively at his side. When satisfied, Mairon pushed back his bowl.  
  
“My Lord, I have a question,” Sûla said.  
  
Mairon raised an eyebrow at him.  
  
Sûla twisted off the dragon armband, set it on the table, then stood back from it. “This thing, it came alive and bit the cook. I saw the marks.” He gestured with two fingers at his forehead. “Just here. This, this should not happen. I’ve worn it for days now after it was returned and nothing . . . not before today. Did it truly try to strangle Hozdûnik? Did you do something to it?” He cast a nervous tongue over his lips.  
  
Mairon chuckled. “‘Tis your doing.”  
  
“What?” His kohl-rimmed eyes anxiously met Mairon’s. “How is that possible?”  
  
“Sit.”  
  
Sûla carefully drew up a chair, perching on the edge of it.  
  
Mairon eyed him speculatively. “So, here is your answer. Ar-Pharazôn forgot about his promise for several days until I reminded him. You can thank me later. I must admit that the King has been somewhat . . . distracted at night.” He winked at Sûla conspiratorially and the young man cracked a smile in return. Mairon had a moment to muse at the irony of trying to cultivate camaraderie with his servant through their similar positions as catamites to the King. How strange was that? After Melkor, he’d vowed never again. He said, “The King ordered the prison guards who had charge of you during the trial to appear before me. The truthsayer’s circle is a powerful tool. I soon learned that Hozdûnik had taken the whole lot from the prison vault and sold it in the Umbarian market.”  
  
“Ha,” Sûla said. “I suspected as much.”  
  
“He found the experience . . . somewhat unnerving.” Mairon swirled the blood-red vintage in his cup, remembering with a delighted shiver the sound of the man’s cries. The odious lout had deserved all he got. “In my search through his thoughts, I discovered something interesting. When he took the armband from you, you told him that it would try to strangle anyone attempting to steal it. Did you not?”  
  
Sûla’s mouth twitched. “I merely sought to frighten him. I had no idea . . .”  
  
“You are a neophyte in wielding the power I gave you and don’t yet know the extent of it. You cursed him, Sûla. I merely enlarged upon the idea.” At this, Mairon flashed a beguiling smile and watched Sûla lean forward, eyes hot upon him.  
  
Mairon enjoyed another slice of cheese. “I sent out a bat seeker, a powerful spell that attaches itself to the object. It revealed the location of your jewelry and I was able to tell one of the King’s messengers, that young imp Darîkil, where to go to retrieve it. I instructed him to return the items to Hozdûnik in prison, to put them right in his cell. You’ll remember that Hazûn informed us that the man awoke from a most interesting dream.”  
  
“Not a dream,” Sûla said. “Hazûn said there was a red line about Hozdûnik’s neck. I thought it odd when he told us that, but now I believe it. I’ve seen the dragon come alive with my own eyes. Tell me, what revives it? Why did it bite . . . the cook?”  
  
“How did you feel when Hozdûnik and his friends stole it from you? When they wrested it from your arm?”  
  
“Furious, desperate. I earned that bracelet, by Zizzûn.”  
  
“Did you want revenge?”  
  
“Yes, of course.” The boy’s eyes flashed deliciously, framed by shapely black brows.  
  
“Then you should be pleased that the seeker animated it. It is your protector now and will be brought to life by strong emotions. You have naught to fear from the likes of Hozdûnik or Lord Dulginzin again.” In addition, Mairon thought with satisfaction, it will keep you on my leash.  
  
“And what will b-befall those it bites?” Sûla asked. His voice broke on the word ‘befall’ and Mairon eyed him carefully. Surely he couldn’t care about a cook or the man who had flogged his back raw, yet tension was wound like iron bands about him.  
  
“Its bite is like that of a viper,” Mairon said. “The man will swell and become feverish. For a while you would have control over him, if you care to exercise it, before . . .”  
  
“Before what?”  
  
“His spirit burns up like kindling in dragon fire and he dies.”  
  
Sûla’s whole body stiffened. “How long does he have?”  
  
“Several days, perhaps as many as five, depending on how strong he is. If he needed the elixir, he must have been ill, so he might not last long. That fool Hozdûnik is dying as we speak.”  
  
“He is?” Sûla covered his mouth with one hand.  
  
“Mmm,” Mairon said. “Of course the healers will think the fever comes from the flogging.”  
  
Sûla swallowed hard. “The cook,” he said. “He was just a harmless old man trying to take care of his family. Is there . . . is there a way to reverse the effect of the bite?”  
  
“There is, but tell me, why do you care?”  
  
“Please, my Lord,” Sûla whispered. “I must know. I couldn’t live with . . . the guilt.”  
  
Something prickled in Mairon’s mind and he felt a surge of anger. The boy was hiding something. How dare he! Mairon shoved back his chair and stood. “Come to me, mîki.” Slowly, Sûla rose and approached Mairon, stopping several paces short of his reach. “Closer,” Mairon said softly. The young man took a step more, ducking his head, clearly terrified. Then Mairon struck. Lunging forward, he grabbed Sûla by the throat, forcing his head back. “There is something you’re not telling me,” he snarled.  
  
“My L-lord,” Sûla choked. “Please!”  
  
“I do not tolerate disobedience or deception from my servants. Is that clear?” Mairon tightened his grip, sending him fear. Sûla nodded frantically. Red-faced, he struggled, pushing at his master’s arms in an attempt to free himself.  
  
Mairon absorbed his panic, then remembered a similar scene of himself caught in his own dreadful master’s grip. His anger dropped away into something else, cold and calculating. He must control himself. Too much and the boy would bolt, which would upset his plans. Mairon relaxed his hand. “You’ve lost the sponsorship of one master,” he warned. “Do you wish to lose my favor as well and be thrown out to fend for yourself in Umbar?” The young man shook his head violently. Ah, yes, the fear was flowing from him now. Mairon breathed it in. “I thought not,” he said. “Do not worry. I’m inclined to be lenient with you, if you tell me what happened.”  
  
Sûla nodded quickly.  
  
Mairon stroked his servant’s cheek. “Good boy. Go, sit on the divan over there.” The young man hastened to do so. Mairon picked up Sûla’s cup, went over to the table and poured a draught of wine for him. He returned, settled himself next to his servant, and spoke a word of quiescence over the cup, watching it steam for a moment. “Drink,” Mairon commanded.  
  
Sûla took the cup, eyed it dubiously. He coughed.  
  
“Go on,” Mairon said soothingly. He reached out and stroked an errant strand of Sûla’s hair away from his face. The young man flinched. “Steady now,” Mairon said. “You will find it calming. Would I harm you after all the effort I’ve taken on your behalf? Do you not see that I value you? You are such a clever one.”  
  
Sûla shivered. He took a sip, and then another. Mairon continued petting his hair. He pulled the tie off Sûla’s plait and pulled it loose with his fingers. Then he stroked down the young man’s cheek with the back of his knuckles, feeling the soft rasp of an incipient beard. Sûla shivered again; Mairon felt both tension and a prickle of ardor from him. “You must know you can’t hide anything from me. Tell me, why are you so concerned about a cook who tried to get you to steal some of my elixir? Or is it perhaps something else that worries you?” Mairon brushed a finger over the mark on Sûla’s neck. “An assignation with a lover, perhaps?”  
  
Sûla’s eyes darted up to meet Mairon’s. He coughed again and his eyes brightened with tears. “I beg pardon, my Lord. I should have told you right off.” He took another gulp of wine. “But I feared to do so. Today, when I went to the solarium to dance, I met up with Tigôn.”  
  
“As I thought,” Mairon said. “Now you will tell me everything.”  
  
There was a moment of hesitation and then Sûla’s words came tumbling out. “I didn’t go seeking him. He found me. Somehow he knew where I’d be. I accused him of being a spy. And he admitted it, bold-faced. We, we fought, my Lord, with blows. Here’s the bruise on my elbow to show you I speak the truth. But then I remembered that you told me that turn about was fair play. What if I could spy on him and his masters—for you, my Lord?”  
  
“You’re a liar, Sûla,” Mairon said. The servant opened his mouth to protest and Mairon made a silencing gesture. “I believe you met him there, that you fought. Then the evidence suggests you reconciled. I would be surprised if any talk of spying or politics was involved.” Again, he touched the bruise on the young man’s neck, watched Sûla glance down guiltily. Yes. With some probing, he’d hear details. “So tell me, what did your young lover have to say? Anything about his masters that I’d find interesting?”  
  
“As you guessed, we didn’t talk much, once we stopped fighting.”  
  
Mairon continued fingering the love bite with a teasing, swirling motion. A vein on the young man’s neck pulsed under his touch. Mairon’s eyeteeth tingled. “Fighting and love-making are not far removed sometimes, are they?” he purred. “So, did he lay you down on the tile amidst the potted trees?”  
  
“No. When the drummers came, we fled, so that no one could see us together. We hid in a closet and well . . .” Sûla’s eyes lost focus. He set his empty cup on the floor.  
  
“You plied your trade with him,” Mairon said.  
  
The brief look of indignation told him much. So, the little zirâmîki fancied himself in love, even after discovering Tigôn was spying on him. Mairon felt a prick of annoyance and something else—a memory of the two of them together, revealed in the trial. Based on his observations of Sûla, the young man was desperate for a show of affection.  
  
“Yes,” Sûla replied. “I suppose I did. But then, my Lord, while we were . . . so close together, Tigôn said he felt something bite him. He thought it was an ant. When I looked at it, I could see two pin pricks on his arm. I suspected it was the dragon but I couldn’t be sure until later when I saw what happened with the cook.” At this, Sûla slid off the divan onto the floor, clasping Mairon by the knees. “Please, my Lord, I do not know why it happened; Tigôn was no threat to me, or to you.”  
  
“Clearly, your dragon thought he was. I wonder why?”  
  
“I have no idea. I can understand why the thing bit Burôda because he pulled a knife on me, but Tigôn did nothing of the sort. I beg you to cure him. Or if you will not, show me how to do it. Please, my Lord.” He took Mairon’s hand and pressed his lips to it.  
  
“And why should I? So far your little messenger has been naught but trouble. What is he to me?”  
  
Sûla raised his head. “You said yourself that you wanted information about his masters. Perhaps . . .”  
  
Abruptly, Mairon cut him off. He rose from the divan, pulling free from his servant’s grasp, and went to the fireplace, holding his hands out to the heat. “A good point about his usefulness. But you’ll have to do a lot better than you’ve done so far. You’ve brought me nothing I can use. I begin to wonder if I made an error taking you on after the King cast you away.”  
  
“No, no, you haven’t,” Sûla murmured, turning on his knees to face him. He held out his cupped hands in supplication. “I promise. Whatever you want.”  
  
“You have very little I want that I do not already own.” Mairon came back over to him, prodded him with his foot. “Get up.”  
  
Slowly, Sûla rose. He twisted his hands together, shoulders slumped. Mairon put a finger under his chin and lifted his face. “I have been most patient thus far, because I see promise in you. You’ve already had a taste of power with the spells I’ve taught you. You can have it all, Sûla, wealth, influence, whatever you want. But you are walking on the edge now and I feel my temper flaring. Just remember your station and who has power over you.”  
  
Sûla nodded rapidly. “Y-yes, my Lord. I am grateful for the gifts you’ve offered. Most grateful. But please, I did not intend for Tigôn . . . I do not want him to die.”  
  
“Why not?” Mairon snapped. “Was not death Ilúvatar’s ‘gift to men’? Shouldn’t Tigôn embrace it with open arms?”  
  
“‘Tis not a gift when it comes so untimely,” Sûla choked out.  
  
“Is that heresy, my young pup?” Mairon said. “Or perhaps the Bawîba Manô priests are wrong?”  
  
“I know not,” Sûla said. “I was raised to worship Lord Zizzûn, god of fate.”  
  
“So you were. Will you trust to him now?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Oh, that lovely olive skin, those shapely cheekbones, and heavy-lidded eyes, so desperate and sorrowful. So needy. Mairon licked his lips. “Do you have a set of bones?”  
  
“Yes, the King gave them to me.”  
  
“Get them.”  
  
Sûla disappeared behind the panel that formed his room, then re-emerged with a small wooden box banded in gold. Another expensive gift. Nudging Ar-Pharazôn to give up his favorite bedmate had been a formidable task. Mairon smiled to himself. Sûla presented the box with a dip of his head.  
  
“Good,” Mairon said, opening the lid. “I shall make a bargain with you. We’ll let Zizzûn decide.”  
  
Sûla looked startled and suspicious. “What are the stakes?”  
  
“If you win, I’ll show you how to reverse the spell. Tigôn shall be none the worse for his encounter with your dragon.”  
  
“And if I lose?”  
  
“My whim shall rule.” Mairon reached in and pulled one ivory piece from the box. “And if it lands on the other sides, we roll again. The odds are equal, one to one.” He opened his hand and held out the ivory piece. “Call it.”  
  
Sûla took the piece from his hand, snapping his fist tightly around it. He closed his eyes. There was a long pause. “Dragon’s tongue,” he said finally.  
  
“Cat’s paw,” Mairon replied.  
  
Sûla hesitated, holding the bone, then he held his breath and cast it out upon the table. The piece rolled and came to a stop with the side facing up showing the unmistakable pattern of the dragon’s tongue with its triangular tip.” Sûla sighed. Mairon lifted a finger casting out his intention and the bone made one more turn. A circle bordered by five smaller ones. Cat’s paw.  
  
“No!” Sûla gasped. His eyes snapped up to meet Mairon’s.  
  
“Don’t despair before you know my choice,” Mairon said.  
  
Sûla waited, gently biting his lip.  
  
Mairon pulled a long ringlet of his servant’s dark hair through his fingers and thought. He could let Tigôn die but it would not serve any purpose. Rather it would earn Sûla’s enmity and lose him a valuable connection to Aphanuzîr and his son, who were high on his list of targets. He said, “Who do you think your villagers were worshiping when they spoke the name of Zizzûn?”  
  
Sûla shook his head.  
  
“My former master Melkor has many names,” Mairon said. “And often enough did I walk among your ancestors as his emissary. Do not believe all that you have heard of him, or of me. I am Annatar, the bringer of gifts to those loyal to me, and I am capable of mercy and . . . affection.”  
  
Sûla’s expression softened. His eyes brimmed. “You’ll help him then?”  
  
Mairon continued stroking Sûla’s hair. “Yes.”  
  
“Thank you,” Sûla breathed. “What do you desire in return?”  
  
Mairon leaned down, his lips inches from Sûla’s so that he could inhale the young man’s breath. “You. Your body, your soul. You will give them all to me and together we will do great things.” Ah there it was, another tendril of hunger. Mairon sucked it in, augmented it, and fed it back to him. Sûla’s eyes fluttered shut. Mairon grasped his arse with both hands and roughly pulled him close. The young man inhaled sharply.  
  
Their lips met with an abruptness that spoke of mutual lust. The boy tasted of wine and dark magic. Fire roared within Mairon, flowing upward from his loins, engulfing him. His mouth widened and he bore down, devouring Sûla’s lips until he felt the young man relent, felt him growing hard against his thigh.  
  
“Disrobe,” Mairon growled.  
  
Sûla pulled away. “Do you wish a performance, my Lord?”  
  
“Unnecessary.”  
  
Sûla rapidly thumbed open the buttons on his vest, then in a quick, practiced movement, shrugged it off his arms. He untied his trousers and giving Mairon a smoldering look, drew them down, and stepped out of them. He straightened, holding his arms out to either side as if to say, ‘here am I.’ Now that was a lovely sight. Mairon remembered seeing him naked, lying on his divan, dewy from the bath, his pert backside striped scarlet. That image nearly caused him to lose control on the spot.  
  
Sûla bowed his head. “I am yours, my Lord.”  
  
Mairon hissed. He strode over and without preamble palmed the back of Sûla’s neck, claiming his mouth once more. All his. But there was something else he wanted. The images of Tigôn in the throes of ecstasy came to him. Yes, that. “How did he take you?”  
  
“My Lord?”  
  
“How did Tigôn take you in that closet?”  
  
“There was very little room in there; it was full of junk,” Sûla said. “I, um, had to lean against the wall.”  
  
“Show me.”  
  
Sûla pulled away, went over to the wall near the dragon tapestry, and leaning his hands against it, presented what had to be one of the shapeliest bottoms in all Endórë. He looked over his shoulder, questioningly.  
  
Mairon strode over to the table. Lifting off his sueded silk robe and ripping aside his loincloth, he poured a handful of oil, inhaled the rich smell of olives and rosemary. Rapidly, he applied it to his engorged organ, then strode over to his servant. He slapped him hard on the rear, feeling the pleasant give of flesh under his hand. Sûla cried out in surprise. Mairon pressed up behind him, clasping him about the chest, and sliding his throbbing cock along smooth buttocks. “Like _this_?” he whispered into Sûla’s ear.  
  
“Yes,” Sûla groaned. “Only he thrust between my thighs.”  
  
“What a waste.” Mairon pulled back a little, one hand on Sûla’s hip, took himself in hand, then abruptly pushed in, relishing the boy’s sharp gasp and his back arching like a fish on a line. Oh yes, the King had been right. Tight as a knot-hole. Mairon began to move, feeding him more pleasure until Sûla moaned and bucked hard against him. “What did he tell you?” Mairon whispered against his ear. “How beautiful you are? How much he cares for you? Did you plot to meet again?”  
  
“We, uh, did not speak much, afraid of being discovered. Oh, by Zizzûn that feels so . . . What are you doing? No wonder the King . . . !”  
  
“Most delicious, is it not?” Mairon said. “You are perfect. Ar-Pharazôn is a fool.”  
  
Strangely, as his servant yielded all to him, shattering around him with a wordless cry, Mairon had a brief vision of gulls swooping and diving around tall white cliffs, watched by an eagle’s unblinking eye.

 

* * *

Burôda - canon Adûnaic meaning heavy. izrê - beloved in Adûnaic

  
B2MeM prompts fulfilled in this chapter: Adûnaic - izrê; Diner’s Club - supper; Emotions - grief, apprehension, delight, cruelty; Write what you know - character something in common; (Sûla has a fear of the unknown future, something he can’t control). Relationship - same sex, seduction; Life Events - sex; Occupations - scribe (Aglahad, it was brief I know); Second Age - the Gift of Men. Textures - fuzzy, rough.  
Thanks so much to my beta Russandol, for her sharp eyes, good advice, and pushing me to do my best. And thanks to Malinornë and Kymahalei for finding the nits.


	30. The Shape of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annatar seduces Sûla, making him an offer he can’t refuse.

Sûla was trying not to think. It wasn’t hard, given the sensations flooding his body—like a rain-swollen river lurching and leaping out of its constraining banks.  This . . . this was the Zigûr’s hold on the King. And no wonder. It was overwhelming.  
  
Annatar had pulled him from where he had been leaning against the wall to a more comfortable spot lying across his bed, and now the sorcerer was at him again, pounding him into the mattress with precise strokes, his loins smacking smartly against Sûla’s backside.  Each movement felt like a sword thrust of pleasure. Far from being in charge of himself, Sûla writhed and moaned and clawed the sheets helplessly under his master. Annatar’s skin felt hot and the very air about them seemed to crackle and glow. There was a sharp, fresh smell of lightning-rent air and Sûla was caught up in the wild current of sensation, tossed about like a cockleboat. Building, building . . .  
  
“Give it up,” Annatar said in his ear, and just like that, with a low wail, Sûla released, capsizing into the depths. Drowning. He heard Annatar’s corresponding cry, a strange howl of ecstasy that made Sûla’s heart quail.    
  
For a time he lay trembling, panting, damp with sweat, and dizzy with a choir of sensation clamoring within. His head half hung off the side of the bed and below him on the tile floor he noticed a small feather from one of the pillows.  Feathers. That meant something.  But what . . . at the moment he could not fathom.     
  
He became aware of Annatar biting his neck, then sucking on it, marking him.  There was no pain, even though he sensed warm fluid trickling down.  His master gathered it up with a swirl of his tongue, and a breathy exhalation of pleasure. Sûla kept still until he was done.  Then Annatar pulled free from Sûla’s body and lay quietly, scratching his nails along Sûla’s back, extending and retracting his fingers. It felt good.  
  
“Did you like that, my Lord?”  Sûla’s voice emerged all raspy and he had to clear his throat.  
  
“Immensely,” Annatar replied. “I should have availed myself of your services long before this.”  He leaned back against the cushions, his fiery waterfall of hair cascading around his broad shoulders, bony in the lamplight. The nostrils flared on his long, narrow nose as if scenting prey from afar.  
  
“Well, the voyage to Númenor is two boring fortnights long,” Sûla replied. He propped his head on one hand. “With much idle time.”  He hoped he wasn’t sounding too eager but, oh, his body craved more.  
  
Annatar yawned lazily. “And the ship is a confined space with many listening ears.  Discretion will be called for between the two of us, due to the King’s sensitivities.  And most likely, I’ll be lodged in the King’s cabin instead of my own.”  
  
“A desirable circumstance?” Sûla asked cautiously.    
  
Annatar laughed. “Hardly. The King makes love like an oliphaunt wallowing in the mud. You know it better than most, I suspect.”  
  
Laughter burst from Sûla before he could catch himself.  “Perhaps I do,” he said. “If I had your skills, I’d still be his favorite.”  
  
“And would you really want that?”Annatar pushed a lock of Sûla’s hair behind his ear.  “Aren’t you better off now?  Your Lord Zizzûn, whom you now know as Melkor, has blessed you. Now you can have everything you desire.”  
  
Not everything, Sûla thought. He saw Tigôn smiling blissfully at him in the flickering light of the fire, as the two of them shared a pillow.  It seemed so long ago and so much had happened since that night. Quickly, Sûla shifted his thoughts before he might give anything away. Instead, he concentrated on how Annatar had just made him feel: like dark honey, sticky-sweet, and wicked.  He saw himself dressed in a robe of peacock feathers, sitting next to his master as they rode in a chariot through cheering crowds. As they passed, the people all bowed before them.  He felt elated, feverish with excitement. Then he saw Tigôn again, tossing and turning in the blankets, flinging an arm over his face.  Sûla shifted uneasily.  “My Lord?”  
  
“No doubt you wish me to fulfill my part of the bargain,” Annatar said, stroking the back of Sûla’s head, playing with his hair. “What if I reconsidered, saying that you have not yet given me everything I asked for?”  
  
Sûla went very still.  He swallowed.  “What have I not given you . . . my Lord?”          
  
“Your will,” Annatar said.  His eyes darted back and forth, scanning Sûla’s face. “I sensed a certain resistance.”  
  
“I’ve given you all I’m capable of,” Sûla replied.  “And Lord Zizzûn considers oaths made over the bones to be sacred.”  Even as he said it, he realized he had sounded petulant.  Not good. He cast his eyes down submissively.  
  
But Annatar chuckled.  He leaned over and kissed Sûla hard on the lips. “You remind me of myself when I was . . . younger.  Clever, with a keen sense of self-preservation.  It’s what I need in a servant as long as that servant doesn’t get above himself.”  He tapped Sûla’s nose with a finger heavy with warning.  “Indeed, my master always managed to twist his vows to suit his own interests. But do not fear.  I consider myself bound by my oaths. And it would be a shame for your charming messenger to receive Ilúvatar’s dubious gift, would it not?”    
  
Fearfully, Sûla nodded.  
  
“Very well.  Clean me up and we’ll work on it.”  
                                  
Shortly afterwards, they were dressed and Annatar was rummaging in his bags, packed for tomorrow’s voyage. The dragon bracelet was still lying on the table, untouched since Sûla had taken it off.   He dearly wished he’d never seen it.  He was feeling all hollowed out, shaky and strange inside.  And worried. Had Annatar detected anything from him while he was in his unguarded throes? He must not slip, not even once, and was regretting all the unwatered wine he’d drunk earlier; he needed to be sharper than he was feeling.    
  
Annatar pried up the wax seal on one of the jars containing the elixir, and poured some of it into a cup. “Here, put this in the hob and make sure it doesn’t overheat.”  
  
Sûla took it to the fire, watching Annatar out of the corner of his eye.  The sorcerer set a lamp on the floor. He redrew his chalk circle with the symbols on the tile then sat back on a cushion. “Hand me the dragon,” he said.  
     
Sûla went over to the table, picked up the thing with a shudder, and carried it over to the Zigûr, who placed it in the middle of the circle.  Annatar closed his eyes, held his hands over it, and said some words in that strange tongue of his, which caused a vague ache in Sûla’s temples. The words echoed in his head while he chased after them in his thoughts, memorizing the sounds so he could replicate them later.  It was like trying to grab smoke. As he watched, the dragon shivered, uncurled, and raised its head.  A needle-like tongue darted from between its teeth.  
  
“There’s our little beast revived from slumber,” Annatar said.  “Now then, this is your opportunity.  One who has been bitten by the bat seeker spirit is open to your suggestion.  Is there something you’d like Tigôn to do?”  
  
Sûla shook his head.  “I just wish him to get well.”  
  
“Wasted opportunity,” Annatar said, with a curl of his lip. “Very well then.  Perhaps you wouldn’t mind ordering the cook to do a favor for me?”  
  
“What favor?”  
  
“I need a message delivered to the sorcerer Magân in the weavers’ quarter.  I would send you but it’s best that I not be connected with this.”  Annatar’s golden eyes gleamed.  “I believe you have an aunt who lives near there. One with whom you are rather displeased.”  
  
Sûla ground his teeth.  “You could say that.  She betrayed me to the Red Cloaks, knowing they would hang me.  Without a thought, she sold out her own flesh and blood.”    
  
“You now have the ability to be revenged,” Annatar said mildly, but his voice held an edge of excitement.  
  
“I do?” Sûla asked. His master nodded slowly.  Sûla remembered Kathalômi standing in her yard, watching him with that greedy expression in her eyes while the Red Cloaks manhandled him. Something cold and dark crept into his heart. He cried out, “I want her to suffer, the way she made me suffer. And my step-father too.  The whole lot of them should die in agony.”  
  
“This cook Burôda can take my message to Magân and then you could send him to pay a visit to your aunt.”  
  
“Yes, I want that. What should I do?”  
  
“Take the dragon in your hand and say the following words,” Annatar replied. Sûla repeated what his master said, and the same oily feeling erupted in his stomach as when he’d last used the freezing spell. He pressed his lips shut against nausea.  
  
“And now project your intention,” Annatar said.  
  
Sûla nodded, imagining the cook hobbling his way towards Kathalômi’s house in the weaver’s quarter, just as he had done after Dulginzin was murdered.    
  
“Tell the dragon how you feel.”  
  
“I hate her!” Sûla declared, and suddenly he bent over choking as something poured forth from him like vomit, but it was shadowy and insubstantial.  Then he spoke in a strange, echoing voice. “You, Dragon, tell Burôda he must come to see the Zigûr to receive a message for the sorcerer Magân.  Once it’s delivered, he should take out the anger he feels towards his feckless son-by-marriage on Kathalômi, the weaver. Let her feel the terror she made me feel. Tell him he will be cured if he does.”    
  
The dragon’s eyes gleamed.  The lamp flickered and wavered and eerie voices whispered in the air.  A shadow rose up from the bracelet like a snake uncoiling. It grew about them, mingling with the shadow that Sûla had belched forth. Although he was terrified, the fear was accompanied by a surprisingly sensual feeling.  It was as if some pulsing nexus bright with culmination lurked just out of reach. Annatar’s cat-like eyes glowed, the dark pupils wide as the shadow expanded, then suddenly disappeared.  
  
“Very good.  You have a natural talent for this,” Annatar purred and Sûla felt a fluttering warmth from the praise. “Now then, I shall teach you to reverse the spell for Tigôn.”  
  
“Oh, the elixir!” Sûla cried. He hastened to the hob and opened the door. Protecting his hands with a cloth, he withdrew the steaming mixture, and carried it back to his master.    
  
“Set it on the table,” Annatar instructed.  He put out a hand, allowing the dragon to slide up his wrist and wrap around his lower arm.    
  
“Does the elixir need more, um . . .?” Sûla gestured at himself.  
  
“You spilled a goodly amount onto my sheets earlier.  Do you already have more you’d like to contribute?” Annatar’s sumptuous mouth quirked.  
  
“If we need it for the spell to work . . . .”  
  
“We don’t, actually,” Annatar said.  “Once I’ve added the seed, the reaction will hold for a period of time.  Although the longer the elixir is kept in storage, the more the potency will diminish.  It’s best when taken fresh.”  
  
“Why did you require seed from both me and the King but not the Regent’s food taster?”  
  
“Ah, sharp lad,” Annatar said, turning to look slyly up at him. “As I’ve said, you show great promise. Come sit.”  
  
Sûla came back and sank down cross-legged opposite the sorcerer.    
  
“The mixture works best if the man who uses it provides the seed.  The healing is stronger and lasts longer. Hence, I wanted some from you and the King, since you were both going to use it.  But it will still work with nearly as much efficacy for someone else, as the food taster proved.”  
  
“Lasts longer?  Does it wear off?”  That was an unnerving thought.  Would his whip weals reappear?  
  
Annatar smiled. “Wounds and illness heal forever.  But nothing can permanently reverse Ilúvatar’s Gift to Men.”  
  
“Does it work for women?” Sûla asked.  
  
“It should. According to my experiments, the seed should activate the formula for any of the Edain who take it.  But I have not yet tried it on a woman.” Annatar tapped his lip thoughtfully.  
      
“I’m sure you will have plenty of candidates who would be happy to test it for you,” Sûla said.  
  
“No doubt,” Annatar replied.  “Although the subjects in the early stages of experimentation were not exactly . . . happy with the results.”  
  
Sûla shuddered.  He didn’t want to know any more about that. “So, what must I do to cure Tigôn?” he asked cautiously.  
  
“You begin the magic now to reverse the spell.  To complete the cure, the dragon must bite him again, to draw back the poison.”  
  
“Why does he need the elixir?” Sûla asked.  
  
“To undo the damage the spell has already wrought on his body,” Annatar said.  “This is a powerful spell, not to be used lightly.”  
  
“I can see that,” Sûla said.  “Thank you for your mercy, my Lord.”     
  
Annatar’s eyes narrowed.  He grasped Sûla’s upper arm.  “I will only show you how to do this if you swear your undying loyalty to me.  My will, my wishes must come first in all things. I own your body, your desires, your very soul. Do you understand me?”  
  
Sûla felt a terrible wailing begin in his heart, but he nodded.  
  
“Swear! Say the words, slave.”  
  
“I swear, my Lord.  I am your devoted servant in all things.”  
  
Annatar smiled. “Good.  Just remember, a favor given deserves one in return.  You will maintain your friendship with Tigôn once we get back to Númenor so that you can bring me information I can use. Yes?”  He gripped Sûla’s arm more tightly.    
  
Sûla nodded. “Of course, my Lord.”  He didn’t think this order would be too hard to obey, since being with Tigôn was what he most wanted, but oh his heart began to twist. He’d been so angry when he’d found out Tigôn had been spying on him and now he would turn around and do the same thing to his friend? Could he live a double lie?     
  
The little dragon uncoiled itself from Annatar’s wrist and transferred itself onto Sûla’s arm.  Sûla tried hard to repress a shudder, but couldn’t. Annatar chuckled.  Sûla was beginning to realize that there was little his master didn’t notice.  He felt his heart thumping.    
  
“Take the words from my breath,” Annatar intoned.  
  
As Sûla leaned towards the sorcerer, he caught a glimpse of their reflections in the bronze wall behind them, distorted and grotesque.    
  
*****  
  
Sûla paused outside Tigôn’s door. Hidden under his cloak, he was carrying a flask filled with Annatar’s elixir mixed with wine. The dragon felt heavy on his arm. He would dearly have liked to leave it behind, but the little beast was key to Tigôn’s cure.  Getting it to bite his friend without him noticing was going to be tricky, but Annatar had told him that no one must learn about the dragon’s capabilities.  ‘You’ll know what to do,’ the sorcerer had said.  Sûla was becoming increasingly worried about this power. It made him feel sick when he used it and that couldn’t be good, could it?  But now a purring voice spoke in his ear. _All your life you’ve felt helpless in the hands of others, subject to their whims. Now, you have the power to protect yourself._  
  
He entertained the thought of going back to his village in Brûni so that the dragon could bite Khunig, his step-father.  He would stand over him, listening to him plead for mercy, then he would say, ‘I have the power to cure you, but remember all those times you beat me; when you raped and nearly drowned me; when you sold me off as a pleasure slave? I remember. Now you can suffer just as I did.’  Sûla’s lip curled.  They would see, all of them.  No one could hurt him anymore . . . no one except his new master.  With that sobering thought, he raised his fist, and knocked.    
  
There was a groan from within.  
  
“Tigôn?” Sûla  called softly.  
  
“Come in; it’s not locked.”  
  
Sûla opened the door, peering around it.  In the flickering lamplight, Tigôn lay on his bed, wearing naught but a pair of leggings, his chest pale and alluring. He was sprawled on his back with one knee up, his arm slung across his eyes, just as Sûla had pictured him earlier in Annatar’s room. Sûla took in a breath. This was his doing.  He must make it better. He felt torn up inside, angry, dark as a shadow, but the sight of Tigôn made his heart beat more quickly.    
  
Tigôn withdrew his arm, opened his eyes, sea dark in the dim light, then struggled to sit upright, smiling a wan welcome. “Sûla! By the gods, I never expected . . . What are you doing here?”  
  
“Shhh.”  Sûla slid into the room, quietly closing the door.   He threw the bolt, locking it.  
  
“You should not have come,” Tigon groaned.  “It’s dangerous. The other pages, they’d tell the King in a heartbeat.” He flopped back down on the pillow. “But I am glad to see you.  Sorry that I’m such a slug.  I’ve a bit of fever and my lord Elendil, I mean Nimruzîr, sent me to lie down. That ant bite is bothering me, it seems.  I feel so weak.”  
  
Sûla came and stood by his side. They had a moment, looking at each other.  Tigôn’s expression grew soft. It was so open and honest, it made Sûla feel as if something were rotting inside him. Even though he’d bound himself to Annatar’s wishes, he must not betray his lover.    
  
“Let me see this bite,” Sûla said.  
  
Tigôn held out his arm. It was swollen and red with two black marks where fangs had punctured the skin just above the crook of his elbow. Tiny livid lines emanated from them. That didn’t look good at all.  Sûla felt his friend’s forehead, which was burning hot to the touch, then he went to the table holding Tigôn’s wash basin and poured the contents of the flask into a ceramic goblet.  
  
“What’s that?” Tigôn asked.          
  
“Oh, I was on an errand for my master and ran into your Lord Nimruzîr,” Sûla said smoothly.  “He told me you’d gone to bed early, not feeling well.  So,” he lowered his voice, “I brought a bit of the elixir out to you.  You must not tell anyone or I’ll get into trouble.”  He dipped a cloth into Tigôn’s water basin, wrung it out, then returned with the goblet and the rag, settling on the narrow bed next to Tigôn.  
  
“The elixir of youth?” Tigôn asked.    
  
“Yes, it cures all sorts of ills.  Remember how my back looked after the flogging.  Did you notice any marks on it while we were in the closet?”  Sûla smiled as he swiped the cloth over Tigôn’s forehead and his swollen arm.  
  
“Oh no, I didn’t.”  Tigôn smiled back. “As I recall your back was perfect: smooth and hard . . . just like the rest of you.”  He paused.  “I am happy you’re here, even though it’s dangerous.  Strange, you know, there were whispers in my dreams, and some of them were about you.”  
  
“Fever dreams are like that,” Sûla said.  “Pay them no heed.”  He turned and picked up the goblet from the table.  
  
“Why waste the elixir on an ant bite?” Tigôn said.  “It should go away soon.  Once, I was stung by a wasp in the garden where I grew up in Eldalondë.  It swelled up real bad like this one, but it went away in a few days.”    
  
“Umbarian ants can be quite venomous,” Sûla said.  “I knew a man who died from their bites.  Now don’t argue, mîki, and let me take care of you.  Here, sit up; drink this.”  Sûla pressed the goblet into his friend’s hand.  
  
Tigôn eyed it dubiously.  “Was this made with the ingredients I got from Magân?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Uh!” Tigôn made a face.  “Do you have any idea what’s in this? Because, unfortunately, I do.”  
  
“Of course I know what’s in it; I watched the Zigûr brew the stuff,” Sûla said, with a laugh.  
  
“Does it taste terrible?” Tigôn asked.  
  
“Never you mind that.  Drink it up.  You’ll feel better immediately.”  
  
“You didn’t see the things I watched Magân pull out of those jars, bit by nasty bit,” Tigôn said. He hesitated, then tilted his head back and swallowed the contents of the goblet in three quick gulps.  He set the cup down abruptly, sticking out his tongue in disgust.  “Gah!”  
  
“It’s worth the bad taste.  You’ll see,” Sûla said.      
  
Tigôn settled back against the pillow. He picked up Sûla’s hand and rubbed his thumb across the back of it.  “I’m truly glad to see you.  I was thinking what a long voyage it will be before we meet up again and I was missing you already. You remember what I said . . .”  
  
“Yes, yes, I remember—that we might see each other again in Armenelos,” Sûla said. He looked down at the dragon on his arm.  No movement.  
                                      
Tigôn frowned. “Have you changed your mind about . . .?”     
  
Sûla glared at him, pressed his lips together, and shook his head. He watched the dawning of suspicion on his lover’s face. Sûla pulled Tigôn’s hand to his chest. “You must trust me.”  
  
“You don’t think I do?”     
  
“I know you do and perhaps you shouldn’t.  But trust me now; I must do something to help make you better.”  
  
Tigôn said, “What more needs to be done, because I’m feeling better already.  That elixir must really work, huh?”  He pushed his hand up under Sûla’s tunic and curved it around his waist. “I love touching your skin. You feel so good.” He leaned forward, pursing his mouth for a kiss.  
  
“I have little time for games,” Sûla said more sharply than he meant.  “My master expects me back soon.”  
  
Tigôn looked surprised and slightly hurt.  He withdrew his hand.  “Sûla, what’s going on?”  
  
Sûla said the words to the freezing spell and watched Tigôn become rigid with his mouth parted in mid-sentence.  Now, he must be quick.  
  
Tensing his stomach against the nausea that followed the spell, Sûla slid off the bed.  He pulled a bit of the Zigûr’s chalk from his pocket, kicked aside a throw rug near the bed and drew a circle on the tile. Then he took the dragon from his arm, set it in the circle, and spoke the batseeker awakening spell.  It worked! The dragon twitched and uncurled. When Sûla held out his hand, it slithered up around his wrist. He scrubbed away the circle and dragged the rug back into place.  
  
This was the time when Tigôn would be open to suggestion.  Sûla rose and sat on the bed, then spoke the influencing spell, feeling the shadow slide from his tongue.  He said,“When you wake, Tigôn, you will think this was all a dream. Remember, just a dream.”    
  
He set the dragon on Tigôn’s arm, shivering as he watched it inch upwards and then sink its tiny teeth into that tender-looking skin. The snake-like body undulated, as if sucking up something; then it retreated, moving down Tigôn’s forearm to Sûla’s hand.  It circled his arm once with a cold metal shiver, recoiling itself around his biceps.     
  
Sûla waited a beat until it had solidified, then he yanked it off, wrapped it in the damp cloth he’d used on Tigôn’s forehead, and ran to the door.  He tossed it into the hall, then closed the door, rebolted it, and ran back to Tigôn.  Throwing himself down on the bed next to him, Sûla kissed him hard on the mouth. “Izrê, listen to me. My master . . . there are forces at work . . . I may do and say things I don’t mean.  Please believe that I love you. No matter what happens, never doubt that.”  He kissed him again, then said, “Remember what I said as part of your dream.”  
  
Tigôn’s mouth began to tremble with reawakening. It was agony but Sûla managed to wrench himself away. He fled, shutting the door quietly behind him.  
                                          
Scooping up the bundled cloth, he retreated a distance down the corridor, then dumped his golden keeper out into his hand.  The beast sat there innocently, unmoving.  Sûla pressed it back onto his arm, then clapped a hand to his forehead.  He’d forgotten the flask.  Well, there was no going back there now, not if he wished to maintain the illusion of a dream.  
  
While walking back to Annatar’s chamber through the lamplit halls, Sûla was suddenly overcome by a feeling of dread. The dragon opened its mouth, hissed, and a quick series of images flashed before him: the sound of footfalls, a threadbare chamber with a single loom; a kitchen table cluttered with the remains of a meal; a large butcher knife; a grey-haired women in a red-and-black striped robe bending over a fireplace.  She turned and straightened, her sunken eyes widening in horror.  He heard her shrieks, echoing horribly in his mind, then silence. A fly floated in a pool of blood on the stone floor.    
  
Sûla bent over double, retching, until finally the sensation passed.  He knew what he had just witnessed, and felt a grim satisfaction in the deed. Surely, she had deserved it.  But he did not feel elated, not the way he had thought he would.    
  
Unsettled and wary, he hurried back to Annatar’s room. The hour was quite late and only a few people were walking about the halls.  Tomorrow the King’s fleet would sail, following the troops that had already departed. All of their fates were bound up in their destination—Númenor.  Sûla found himself dreading any future there that he could realistically foresee.  Pausing outside the sorcerer’s door, he swallowed hard.  Lord Zizzûn might be rolling the bones, but Annatar was fixing the game.

*****  
  
Amandil shaded his eyes as he peered across the harbor at the myriad anchored ships gently listing up and down, their red and yellow sails slack. The fog that had obscured them from view was burning off rapidly and the day was turning fine, except for one critical element—no breeze. It needed to pick up or they wouldn’t get too far today and that was a truly frustrating thought. Overhead the gulls squawked in their rusty-hinge voices as he leaned against a barrel to ease his aching feet.  The Zigûr’s elixir would come in handy about now.  
  
Everywhere about him men swarmed the docks, loading cargo into dinghies and taking them out to the ships, then rowing back for more. Those awaiting their turn to go were gathered on the quay, playing dice games or singing.  The atmosphere was festive.  Everyone seemed happy to be heading home.  
  
Rubbing the serpents’ heads on his ring as he was wont to do, Amandil thought of logistics. It had been a week of hard work getting all the stores, equipment, livestock, and people loaded onto their ships. Lord Rothîbal and his troops from Ondosto and Izindor and his company from Arandor had departed the day before, along with one third of the fleet.  Ar-Pharazôn would sail with the greater part of his force today and the final fifty ships would follow on the morrow. Amandil and Elendil would each captain their own ships as part of the royal escort. Elendil’s Izrê and his own ship, the Pûh, were nearly loaded and ready to leave.  They just needed a wind.  The Bawîba Manô priests would perform their usual ceremony just before departure that asked Manwë, Ossë, and Uinen for good sailing weather, but Amandil was skeptical.  Sometimes it worked; often it didn’t.  And it was still winter on this side of the sea. The time of storms.  
  
A dozen yards off, one of his men was attempting to manhandle a barrel into a dinghy.  It slipped from his hands, and dropped smartly onto the dock, cracking open one of the staves. Biscuits spilled everywhere with a slithering clatter.    
  
“By the dog, Bansil, easy with those barrels!” Amandil bellowed.  “D’ya want to go hungry halfway home?”  
                                  
“No, my Lord Captain,” his man replied, abashed. He and others began gathering up the spill, but they weren’t quick enough to thwart the gulls, who swooped down screeching as the men danced about, batting them away.  
  
Amandil shook his head, trying not to laugh as a gull made off with a tan square in its mouth. That bird would find it a tough bite.  
  
“Ah, Lord Aphanuzîr.  A good morning for setting off, wouldn’t you say?”     
  
Amandil turned. Lord Azgarad was walking towards him, dressed in his formal blue robes.  
  
“Better if we could get a wind,” Amandil said. He waited until Azgarad was nigh and then said quietly, “I’m most sorry you won’t be coming back with us.”  
  
Azgarad frowned. “You no more than I,” he replied.  “This is a Valar-forsaken spot besieged by the murderous, skin-flaying Haradrim who now have sworn a blood feud against Númenor. There will be a war soon, count on it.” Azgarad’s eyes flashed. “But the King has spoken and I am a loyal retainer who knows his duty.” The former steward bent his head and lowered his voice. “I have some news for you about Annatar’s new slave, that little troublemaker, Sûla.  But we should withdraw.  There are too many watchful eyes here.  Find me in the back room of the Fishwife.”  He gestured with his chin at a tavern just off the main pier.    
  
“Very well,” Amandil agreed.  The new Regent of Umbar moved off while Amandil went back to overseeing the flurry of activity on the docks. He noticed Elendil getting out of a dinghy and climbing onto the pier, then he waved as he made his way through the crowd.     
  
“All is made ready, Ada,” Elendil said when drew alongside. “Most of my men have boarded already.”  
  
“As have mine.  I am merely awaiting the King’s departure,” Amandil said.  “Evidently Lord Azgarad has some news. Wants to meet me in that tavern over there.  Are you free?”  
  
“For the moment,” Elendil said.  “After the morning I’ve had, I could use a drink.”  
  
Amandil looked about at the men rowing out to the ships, and the gulls still fighting over scraps.  A drink and a chance to get off his feet sounded good, though he doubted he’d like Azgarad’s news.  
   
*****  
  
A thumping noise reverberated in Tigôn’s head. A little golden lizard was biting him. He tried to yell, instead he awoke with a gasp and looked at his arm.  Nothing. No golden beastie. He sighed. Merely a dream and a strange one at that, although it was fast dissipating in the manner of dreams.  Sûla had been in it; he remembered that much.  His friend’s arm bracelet had come alive and slithered up Tigôn like a snake, before plunging its fangs in his biceps. It had seemed so real, he could almost feel the sting, but when he raised his arm to look, probing the location of the bite, there was no trace of the itching, swelling, or heat that had been there last night. All he could detect were two tiny scabs where the bite had been. A fever dream, that was all.    
  
Again there came a pounding on his door that nearly made him jump out of his skin.  
  
“Tigôn! Tigôn, are you up?”    
  
Tigôn groaned a reply. The door cracked open and Khibil, a member of Elendil’s staff looked in.  “Gah, you are a heavy sleeper,” he said with a laugh. “And you have a hard door. My fist hurts. Lord Elendil sent me to see how you were faring.”  
  
“Well enough,” Tigôn said. “The fever seems to have passed.” In fact, he felt remarkably well.  The ant bite wasn’t bothering him a bit.    
  
“Good.  Then it’s time to shake a leg,” Khibil said. “The crews are gathering on the pier and we are already boarding the Izrê. Better hurry or you’ll get left behind.”    
  
“Tell Lord Elendil, I’ll be there in two shakes of my leg,” Tigôn said.  
  
Khibil laughed and shut the door.  
  
Tigôn leapt up and hurriedly dressed.  He had a bad taste in his mouth, so he drank a glass of water before splashing his face in the wash basin and running a comb through his curly hair. While he was doing that, his glance fell on a small flask sitting nearby. That was curious; he didn’t remember having that piece.  He picked it up.  It was of Umbarian make, painted with dolphins leaping in the surf.  He sniffed at the top, and wrinkled his nose. It smelled foul—like the taste in his mouth.    
  
Suspiciously, he cast his eyes about the room, looking for anything else out of place.  On the low table next to his bed sat the wine goblet that he’d taken from the dining hall last night. He didn’t remember leaving it there.  He went over, picked it up, and inhaled. Same smell. Tigôn felt a prickle on the back of his neck. Something wasn’t right here. A further look about the room revealed that the throw rug by his bed had a corner folded over on itself.  He knelt down to examine it and noticed a scratching of white on the tile. Pulling the rug away, he saw, ever so faintly, the remnants of a chalk circle.  Abruptly he sat back, his heart pounding in alarm.  Surely that hadn’t been there before. What had happened?    
  
Sûla had been here, he would swear to it.  When he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, he could detect his lover’s perfume in the air.  Had he slept right through it or was it something more sinister?  Had Sûla used the freezing spell on him again? But why would he do that? They had parted amicably and Sûla had agreed to their plan. And why the circle?  Was the Zigûr now teaching him his magic?  Or had Annatar been here?  Anxiously, Tigôn chewed his thumbnail.  What had been done to him?  He ran his hand along his arm, feeling no trace of the swelling from the night before.  It seemed he had taken no harm from it, whatever it was.  He’d never felt better. The strange dream with the dragon, that must be the key.  Had it really happened? It had certainly seemed real enough. He racked his thoughts trying to retrieve the last drifting threads.    
  
*****  
  
Izrê - canon Adûnaic meaning ‘beloved.’  
Khibil - canon Adûnaic meaning ‘spring.’  Khibil is a member of Elendil’s household.  
Pûh - canon Adûnaic meaning ‘breath’ or ‘spirit’  
  
Describing Annatar as smelling like “the sharp, fresh smell of lightning-rent air” is a nod to Pandemonium’s description of him smelling like ozone—which I always liked.  
  


-tbc-


	31. Summoning the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Responding to strange reports, Lords Azgarad, Amandil, and Elendil compare notes in a tavern and their concern deepens; Annatar mouths off and earns the ire of the head of the Bawîba Manô priesthood; and we get final thoughts from all the major players as they board ships Númenor-bound. Finally.

In a quiet back room of the creaky old tavern known as The Merry Fishwife, Amandil drained a glass of cool ale, nutty in taste with just the right amount of head. He plunked it down on the table and sighed. “That went down easy,” he said. “What a day this has been.”  
     
“Mustache decorations, Ada,” Elendil said, his eyes crinkled with amusement. It was an old joke between them.    
  
There was a muffled sound of cheering from the rowdy group of Númenóreans bidding goodbye to the local orzini beer in the front room. Amandil rolled his eyes, wiped his mouth with a napkin, then looked at his son who chuckled and nodded. “So, what is your news, Azgarad?” Amandil growled, turning to the newly appointed Regent.  
  
Azgarad had been quietly nursing a mug of mulled wine.  He cleared his throat.  “Last night there was a murder down in the village.”  
  
“Is that so uncommon?” Amandil snorted, leaning back in his chair.     
  
“Unfortunately not,” Azgarad said.  “But this one seemed strange to my ears. Igmil, the captain of the Umbarian prison guard approached me at breakfast saying that watchmen in the village had taken custody of a new prisoner—a cook in Rabêlozar’s service who was found wandering the streets last night.  He was blithering, didn’t know where he was or how he got there, but he was bleeding from knife wounds in his hands and his clothes were soaked in blood.  Following the bloody trail, they discovered a woman dead in her home.  One of the guards recognized her as Sûla’s relative—the one who turned him in.  They said the room was like a slaughter house. She must have put up a fight.”  
  
Amandil and Elendil looked at each other.  
   
“What was the cook doing there?” Elendil asked.  
  
“No one knows, not even the man himself.  According to Igmil, the cook didn’t remember leaving the kitchen last night. But unfortunately, we couldn’t question him further as he died in prison within hours after being put in his cell.”  
  
“Died? Of his wounds?” Amandil asked.  
  
“No. A fever it seemed.  They said his skin was burning up and his forehead was swollen and appeared to have marks, as if bitten by some fell serpent.  Now, I would have thought that the fever had caused him to lose his mind and commit the murder, but then I recalled something that Izindor’s son Mirandor said that morning when I went to investigate Dulginzin’s death. Under questioning, he said that Sûla had bewitched him the night of his brother’s murder.”      
  
“I believe he said something like that at the trial,” Elendil said. “But I thought he was either  delusional or lying.”  He picked up the pitcher of ale. “More, Ada?” Amandil nodded.   
  
“We all did,” Azgarad replied, eying him solemnly. “Izindor’s son is not right in the head and so I paid him no heed.  Perhaps I should have. But I put that together with other tidings. Another prisoner died mysteriously in his cell this morning, one of the King’s guards, by the name of Hozdûnik. He had been recovering from the flogging he got as punishment for stealing, but he didn’t die of that. The surgeon said he was strangled, yet there was no evidence of a rope or anything else that could have done it. You might recall, he’s the one who whipped young Sûla so enthusiastically.”  Azgarad raised an eyebrow. “Too much of a coincidence, I’m thinking, that two people who hurt Sûla have died mysteriously. The guards in the prison are terrified, but for a different reason. Igmil tells me they believe that the Regent Rabêlozar has returned as a wrathful ghost. They’ve warned me to beware of his vengeance.”   
  
“Well if he comes after you, you’ll be forewarned of his presence by the smell,” Amandil said.  
  
“True enough.” The corners of Azgarad’s lips quirked.   
  
“I don’t believe in vengeful ghosts,” Amandil continued, “but I do agree that the connection with Sûla is disturbing.”  
  
Elendil said, “There is more to this.  Something was reported to me during the battle at Arzog’s Pass. Sûla unexpectedly appeared at the entrance of the Pass along with Hazûn, the new captain of the King’s guard. You’ll remember that a Southron attempted to capture Tigôn and ride off with him? Hazûn was in the patrol standing next to Sûla and he swore that the zirâmîki said some strange words in a language he’d never heard before but he thought it might be Black Speech, and then a sudden wind came up, spooking the Southron’s horse, which shied and dumped its riders. We were busy with the aftermath of the battle and at the time I paid the story no mind. Hazûn wasn’t sure about it himself and said it could well have been a coincidence. But since then it’s bothered me. When I mentioned it to Tigôn, he didn’t deny it.”  
  
Amandil took a swallow of ale. The disquiet that he had been feeling ever since they’d captured the Zigûr rose up again to knot his guts. “There appears to be a common thread to this strangeness.”   
   
“Yes, I could give that thread a name: Sûla,” Azgarad said. “And since it seems to have begun when we captured Annatar, we know who is ultimately responsible.  I fear he is extending his claws through his servant.”  
  
“Indeed,” Amandil said with a grimace. “The Zigûr is capable of bewitching people. Remember the surgeon’s wife Zôri?  Yanak claimed she wasn’t right after she returned from tending Annatar’s whip wounds.  Then she tried to incinerate Annatar with a firepot and he knocked her off a cliff with his catapult.  I haven’t forgiven him for that.”  
   
“Yes, clearly there’s black magic at work. And it seems quite suspicious that Annatar requested the boy as a servant after the trial,” Azgarad said.     
  
Amandil nodded. “It’s likely Annatar cast some spell on him early on.  I came upon them sitting together in a wain, cozy as could be, and I ordered Sûla to get out. And, as I recall, shortly after that Annatar attempted to seduce the boy, if we can believe him.”  
  
“Clearly the King did. He flogged Annatar for the offense,” Azgarad said.  “But perhaps the story is more complicated than that. Perhaps he wasn’t trying to seduce him in the carnal sense of the word.”  
  
“Is Sûla an unwitting accomplice?” Elendil asked.  
  
“Or an all-too-willing ally,” Azgarad replied.  “What reason does an Umbarian slave have for loyalty to the realm?  Annatar is likely using that young man as a tool, although why the death of his aunt advantages Annatar is more than I can figure. Perhaps that was some mischief the boy has caused on his own. The cook is dead, but I will do my best to investigate further. In any event, I wanted to warn you that I believe Sûla may be dangerous. Upon returning to Númenor, you must find a way to get rid of him.”  
  
“I would like to urge caution,” Elendil said. “We have nothing solid to go by.  How in Arda did a young bedslave suddenly become adept at black magic?  As far as I’ve been able to discern, he’s been a pawn in all this.”  
  
Azgarad thumped a fist on the table.  “How much more evidence do you need before he creeps into your room and slits your throat one dark night? Perhaps he really did kill Dulginzin and then bewitched that servant into taking the blame.”  
  
“That was not what the trial revealed,” Elendil said sharply. “I watched everyone’s reactions carefully and I’m convinced Sûla was blameless of all but his tryst with Tigôn. Perhaps he’s a conduit for Annatar’s spells?”  
  
“Whether innocent or not, his actions are suspicious.  He’s a slave and expendable,” Azgarad declared.  “Kill him!”  
  
“Even slaves have some rights under the law,” Elendil said, narrowing his eyes. “Are we to begin assassinating everyone we suspect of doing harm, my Lord? Without proof? That is not the road Númenor should start down.”  
  
“Whatever his involvement, he bears watching,” Amandil interjected, patting Elendil’s arm. “We will keep our eyes on him, you may be sure of that. Annatar may well be using him to do his bidding.”  
  
“My thoughts exactly,” Azgarad replied.  His face suddenly looked lined, care-worn.  “I understand caution, but my heart says we should cut out the sickness before it festers.”  
  
Amandil frowned. “If Sûla can wield dark magic, then caution is all the more advised. I am most unhappy that they will be cooped up together on shipboard during a long sea voyage.  Time enough for the Zigûr to exert his influence on the King.  Neither Nimruzîr nor I will be there to counter it.  I did my best to convince Pharazôn to put him on my ship.  He wouldn’t hear of it.  By Manwë!”  Amandil’s frustration bubbled over.  He got up and paced the small room.   
  
“That is not to my liking either,” Azgarad mused, drumming his fingers on the table. “We should tell him about the new evidence we’ve uncovered. Perhaps that will convince him that Annatar is scheming behind his back.”  
  
“I certainly intend too, as soon as possible,” Amandil said.  “But I don’t see how I can get to him before he takes ship.  And who knows what Annatar will have done to him by the time we get home.”  
  
“Take any opportunity to speak to the King. Perhaps we can get him aside before he boards,” Azgarad said.  “There are reasons I’m glad I’m not returning with the King to Armenelos. I might be tempted to knock some sense into him and end up hanging from a mast.”  
  
Amandil snorted.  “You and me both.”  
  
“And what of young Tigôn?” Azgarad said. “He and Sûla were lovers.  Are you sure of his loyalty, Nimruzîr?  You might consider sending him home to his father as soon as you land in Rómenna.”  
  
“His family and ours go back a long way,” Elendil said.  “I regard him like my own son and I trust him.”  
  
“Have a stern talk with him during our long sea voyage, ion,” Amandil growled, coming back and bending over his son. “Remind him of the consequences of further contact with that zirâmîki once we make landfall.”  Heavily, he sat back in his chair.  
  
Elendil nodded. “That I will.”   
  
“Be wary, both of you,” Azgarad said. “Warn the Faithful. Find allies. Keep your ears and eyes open.”  He gave them a wry look. “And now we have disappeared for too long. The King should be coming down soon, if he ever gets all his luggage stowed aboard ship.  We should be there for the Homeward Blessing.”  
  
Amandil nodded. “I look forward to your return to court once the new Regent is appointed.”  
  
“Ha,” Azgarad scoffed. “If you can remind the King of that promise, I shall be grateful. But out of sight, out of thought, you know. I fear that I shall not be returning to Númenor any time soon. His new ‘counselor’ Annatar was behind my change of position, I’m sure of it. He wanted to get me out of the way. You may well be next.”  He raised his thick eyebrows at them, paused, then extended his hand. “I have always liked and trusted you, Aphanuzîr, and you too, Nimruzîr.  I know you both to be faithful and true subjects of Númenor.  We three need to form an alliance.”  
  
Amandil glanced at Elendil, who nodded.    
  
“Let’s swear to it now,” Azgarad said.    
  
Amandil reached across the corner of the  rickety wooden table and grasped Azgarad by both hands. “It is so sworn,” he said.  “I’ll keep you informed to the best of my ability and you do the same.”  
  
“And so shall I,” Elendil said, joining his hands to theirs.  
  
“Agreed, then,” Azgarad said.    
  
“Take care of yourself, Azgarad,” Amandil said.  “If I were you, I’d employ a personal guard—or two—in case ‘Rabêlozar’s ghost’ returns.”  
                                                  
“Already done,” Lord Azgarad said. “May Manwë’s breath speed you on your way.”  
  
****  
  
Mairon was becoming highly irritated with the pomp and delays involved with the King’s exit from the city.  The King’s retainers had to line up in the gardens in front of the palace and then wait interminably until all the luggage had been sent down, including the King’s furniture, armor, weapons, trunks of clothes and gold, and his immense stores of food and wine. Mairon stamped his feet in the damp chill and thought of what he would like to do to the King later as payment for this discomfort. The fog  covering the town below them burned off as Anor rose, ever so slowly.  Mairon extended his senses aloft, feeling for a change in weather. For a long while, he searched.  The wind was coming, he concluded, but not for several hours.  
  
Two guards stood on either side on him: Milzagar and that beaky-nosed lout Sikhulzin, who kept belching; bringing up a sour stench, probably from over-indulgence in wine. When Mairon had had quite enough of the smell, he sent the thought of a spider creeping up the inside of Sikhulzin’s breeches, biting as it went. The guard flinched, grasped his crotch, then slapped excitedly as he danced about with his hand thrust deeply into his breeches, searching for his invisible tormenter.  
  
“Are you daft! What’s wrong with you!” Milzagar declared.   
  
“Blasted bugs! I’ll be back,” Sikhulzin cried, and scurried off, slapping as he went.    
  
Mairon laughed quietly to himself.      
  
It was nearly noon when all was made ready and they finally began wending their way down the steep hill from the palace towards the docks.  Aznat, the King’s herald led the parade dressed in blue velvet and sporting a plumed hat. Then came a raucous chorus of Umbarian musicians playing drums, horns, and nasal-sounding flutes.  Behind them trooped that self-righteous idiot Ikar-lak, head of the Bawîba Manô, along with his three priests in their ridiculous costumes, their faces submerged within their feathered headdresses. Mairon wondered what pinhead had first thought up that costume.  If  Manwë ever bothered to come down off his mountain to watch the Númenórean’s antics, he would probably decide to destroy the whole lot of them.   
  
A fifth priest whose tunic embroidered with foam-capped waves showed him to be devoted to Ossë carried an oiolairë branch, taken from the prow of the King’s ship. Its prickly leaves had turned brittle and brown.  No doubt the priest would use it to renew the ceremony of blessing. How quaint, Mairon sneered. Fat lot of good a dry stick would do them if his brother Ossë decided to kick up a storm.  By the Door of Night, he was tired of all this.   
   
Mairon and his guards were required to walk behind the King, who was riding a white horse and dressed in his gilded finery, his spotted lion’s skin cloak draped artfully about his shoulders.  Mairon had chosen more practical garb for a sea voyage consisting of a light woolen cape and a soft linen tunic and breeches.  His armor had been sent ahead to be stowed on board ship.  Instead of his helm, he wore a broad-brimmed hat to shield his pale skin from the light of Anor and Sûla had braided his hair back from his face. Behind him waddled Nibanuzîr, Ar-Pharazôn’s head of household, along with servants, guards, pages, scribes, cooks, dressers, armorers, not to mention more luggage.  Mairon rolled his eyes.  
  
Sûla strode at his side well dressed in a cape and a black and gold tunic, his eyes lined with kohl.  He was struggling with the weight of a heavy bag he carried over one shoulder that held the brewing vessels and ingredients for Mairon’s various potions, including what remained of the elixir.  Mairon would have to dole that out to the King carefully over the next month.    
  
With a feeling of delight in a beautiful possession, Mairon’s eyes lingered over his servant’s fair form. It was amazing the boy could still walk after the fucking he’d given him this morning.  That had been most enjoyable—for both of them, he was certain. Sûla was coming along very nicely. During this morning’s bout Mairon hadn’t noticed any of the resistance that he’d felt from him last night. Sûla lifted his eyes and noticed him watching, then cast them down again with a little smile. Very good.     
  
The road was lined with scores of Umbarians gathered to watch the Númenóreans depart.  No doubt their feelings were mixed, Mairon thought. Númenórean gold was welcome; their attitude of superiority less so.  Here and there he saw his Lorcastrîn, with their braided hair tied off in red strips of cloth watching him intently. He sent out thought calls and some nodded as he passed.  He wondered if Sûla’s cook had delivered the message to Magân before killing the woman. The message was: ‘Once the King of Anadûnê has left Umbar, infiltrate the palace, and seize power from the Regent. Lord Zizzûn shall prevail.’  
  
As they passed the fish market and a row of taverns near the docks, a rowdy crowd poured forth from various doors, waving mugs and cheering. The Númenóreans among them joined the parade.  As Mairon looked back over his shoulder, he noticed three figures emerge from one of the taverns, one by one, and slip into the crowd: Azgarad, Aphanuzîr, and Nimruzîr.  That was an interesting association.  He would store up that information for the King later.    
  
Aphanuzîr caught up, cast a wary glance at Mairon, then walked along next to the King’s horse.  When they reached the docks, everyone paused while Ar-Pharazôn dismounted.  Holding the horse’s reins, Aphanuzîr leaned forward and whispered something to him.  The King made a dismissive gesture.  “Later,” he said.    
                      
The priests stopped and faced the Umbarian Regent’s gold-painted barge with the scarlet awning tied up to the pier.  They formed themselves in a semi-circle around an iron brazier filled with glowing coals. The men who were gathered along the docks quit what they were doing and stood reverently.                 
  
Mairon was shoved up behind Sûla in the sudden press of bodies. The sensation of Sûla’s warm backside was alluring, but Mairon became aware that his servant’s attention was riveted to something else some distance away.  He followed Sûla’s glance and saw Tigôn, carrying a duffle bag over his shoulder, working his way through the crowd.  Tigôn looked up and stared at them. He mouthed something. Sûla turned his head, looked at Mairon, and his expression glazed.  He sighed and shifted his backside surreptitiously against Mairon’s thighs. “Don’t think you can fool me, mîki,” Mairon said softly in his ear, and Sûla tensed.   
                                          
Ar-Pharazôn strode to a place opposite the arc of priests, with his back to the sea. Mairon noticed that Aphanuzîr came forward to stand next to him, which was his right as Steward. Elendil and Azgarad were situated not too far away. He needed to be closer himself. Mairon sent a whisper of suggestion to the King, who abruptly looked up, and beckoned to his guards.  “Bring the Zigûr here,” he said.   The men took him by the arms and pushed through the crowd until Mairon was standing on the King’s other side.  Much better.   
  
Ikar-lak began a long chant of praise to Lord Manwë Súlimo, Most High King of the Bârî an-Adûn, he who rules the winds, begging for a fair breeze to send them swiftly to their home in Anadûnê.  Mairon yawned.  The ritual was as likely to bring about the desired result as taking a piss into the ocean would raise the tides.      
  
One of the other priests stepped forward and poured olive oil over the coals as an offering. The embers crackled, spit sparks, and a column of blue smoke drifted aloft releasing a pleasant cooking smell to contrast with the bitter salty air. The smoke crept upward in a curling spiral as the priest formally embraced Ar-Pharazôn with a kiss on each cheek. “May the Lords Manwë and Ossë, and the Lady Uinen bless our journey,” the man intoned.    
  
Mairon couldn’t help himself.  He folded his arms. “It would do you just as much good if you blew your offering towards me,” he sneered.   
  
The priests all turned.  Ikar-lak glowered at him. There was some nervous tittering in the crowd.    
  
“Are you suggesting we make sacrifice to you?” Ikar-lak asked, incredulously.  
  
“Why not?” Mairon shrugged.  “I’m much more likely to hear your words, since I’m standing right next to you. Who knows where my brother Ossë or my Lord Manwë are just now?  I know Manwë well and he’s a capricious fool.  I daresay he’s much too busy sitting on his remote mountain top doing lewd things to an eagle to bother listening to your whining.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn’s mouth twitched into a smile, but Ikar-lak’s face flamed red as an apple. “That’s blasphemy, Sauron!” he roared. He turned to the King. “How can you abide this, Ar-Pharazôn?”   
  
“Pay him no heed, Ikar-lak,” Ar-Pharazôn replied gruffly. “He is just trying to vex you. Apparently it worked.”  
  
Aphanuzîr stirred. He said, “My Lord, as your Steward and head of the Council of the Sceptre I must protest this slander of our Lord Manwë.”  Then, when Ar-Pharazôn turned his head, Aphanuzîr whispered so softly that Mairon’s sharp ears barely caught it.  “You cannot let this pass, my Lord.  It makes you look weak.”  
  
Ar-Pharazôn stepped back, raking Aphanuzîr with a furious look.   
  
“I agree,” Azgarad said. “We cannot allow such talk about the Bârî an-Adûn.”   
  
Aphanuzîr’s son nodded.   
  
Ar-Pharazôn’s mouth set into a hard line. He gestured at the two guards on either side of Mairon.   “Force him to his knees,” he roared.  
  
The guards blinked for a moment, then grabbed Mairon by his arms, shoving him down.  He landed with a painful thump on the uneven boards of the dock.  The crowd grew silent, watching.    
Ar-Pharazôn pulled a jeweled knife from his belt and came up to Mairon, pressing the flat of the blade against his lips.  “You, Annatar, remember that you are my prisoner.  Have a care with that tongue or we may have to have it out.”    
  
“Yes, O King,” Mairon said.   
  
“So that you’ll remember that fact, you shall spend the first sennight of our journey in the brig below decks.  Now apologize to the Bawîba Manô.”    
  
No! He would not be shoved in some dark, smelly hold, lurching about and getting ill. Mairon’s hands suddenly began to sweat. Curse Aphanuzîr!    
  
“As you say, my Lord,” Mairon said, lowering his head and spreading out his arms. “My apologies Ikar-lak, to you and your esteemed brethren. I’m sure your prayers to Manwë will result in a wind . . . eventually.”  
  
“You are insolent,” Ikar-lak said to him in a low voice. “I shall see to it that you are confined permanently to a dark tower in Armenelos.”  
  
Mairon gave him a look of scorn.  “Try it,” he said under his breath.     
  
“Shut up,” Ar-Pharazôn warned.  “Or I’ll lash you both. You two, take the Zigûr to the barge.”  He turned on his Steward.  “Is the Council satisfied now, Aphanuzîr?”  
  
Aphanuzîr nodded, but his lips were pressed together unhappily.  His gaze seemed to linger on Sûla.  Mairon glanced at his servant to see if anything was amiss, and Sûla returned his look, wide-eyed. The guards hauled Mairon to his feet, steering him towards the boat.   
  
Enraged, Mairon felt himself drawing upward into his dragon shape and stopped himself just  before he lost control. For a moment he visualized himself marauding the entire coast, raining down fire and destruction. Several Lorcastrîn were watching him with sneering expressions. Now was the time. He needed a display of power.  
  
Mairon extended his senses aloft, feeling for the air currents. Ah, excellent, he found one—coming up fast. He shrugged off the guards, sending them the order to move away, turned facing the crowd, and raised his arms to the heavens.   
  
“O Manwë Súlimo, hear me! Forgive my insolence,” he called, “I have naught but respect for your wisdom and forbearance.  Hear now my prayer for your children, the mighty Edain of Númenor. Send us the winds, my Lord.  I humbly beg of you.”    
  
There was a long pause.  He heard someone snicker. But then, ever so faintly, he felt it, the whisper of a breeze, flowing in from the sea—from the west.  A piece of parchment skipped along the dock.  Banners flapped and somewhere a bell clanged.    
  
As one, the priests turned their eagle-beaked heads towards the sky and then lowered them to stare at him. The guards stepped back from Mairon as if he had ignited into flame; Ar-Pharazôn’s eyebrows rose, then he grinned; and the crowd began to murmur. Several of the Lorcastrîn sent up a ululating cry that was soon joined by others, “Zigûr, Zigûr,” they chanted.    
  
Mairon’s mouth curled upward in triumph. He bowed.  “From my lips to Manwë’s ear. There, O King, is your wind.”    
  
*****  
  
All the while Tigôn had been walking with the procession down the hill, he’d been racking his brain trying to remember the dream. Only bits had returned to him, but he was sure Sûla had been in his room last night and that he’d given him some of Annatar’s elixir, which had healed him.  He could not fathom why Sûla had needed either the chalk circle or such secrecy. And the thought that his lover’s dragon armband had come to life like that and bitten him? Well, that couldn’t be true.  The very idea was weird and unnerving.  
  
When Tigôn saw Sûla’s face in the crowd, eyes staring blankly ahead, he felt his heart tumble over.  Then, he distinctly heard Sûla’s voice in his head: _There are forces at work . . . I may do and say things I don’t mean.  Please believe that I love you. No matter what happens, never doubt that._   There had been a kiss too in his dream, a passionate one.  Tigôn ran a finger over his lips. It was real. Sûla had spoken those words, then kissed him. Tigôn could feel it, just as he had dreamed about the kiss Sûla had stolen more than a fortnight ago after he spoke the freezing spell in the King’s tent.  Sûla raised his head and their eyes met with a force that belied the distance between them.    
  
Tigôn mouthed, “It was _not_ a dream.”    
  
Sûla’s eyes widened. He turned to look at his master and then Annatar bent over, whispering something in his ear.  Sûla dropped his gaze, his face masked again. The almost palpable connection between him and Tigôn broke.    
  
 _No matter what happens_ Sûla had said.  Tigôn didn’t like the sound of that.  What was Annatar doing?  He wanted to scream, to run over and wrest Sûla away from him.  Patience, he thought.  We have our plan.    
  
While Ikar-lak began his invocation to Manwë, Tigôn’s thoughts were far away.  He imagined disembarking at the docks in Rómenna, worried because the King’s ship had reached port several days prior. He made his way through the bustling market to the Eagle Eye shop, entering its dusty, dimly-lit confines with the many cases filled with glittering marvels.  His father’s friend Akhâsadûn greeted him with a short bow, saying, ‘So glad to see you Tigôn, son of Eärdur.  You have a visitor awaiting you.’ He guided Tigôn to a back room and there was Sûla in his dance costume sitting with his feet propped up in front of the fire. He raised his beautiful eyes, and oh, he looked good enough to eat after the endless days at sea. ‘It took you long enough,’ Sûla would say in his scornful manner, but then he would smile happily. Tigôn would rush into his arms and kiss him like fire. When they finally separated, Sûla would say, ‘I’ve already sold my dragon to your friend and booked passage on a ship to Andúnië.  It leaves in an hour.’ And Tigôn would say,‘An hour is just long enough,’ before pulling him into a closet and ravishing him. Ha! Well, he could imagine it, couldn’t he?  
  
He was startled from his thoughts upon hearing some nervous laughter around him, then Ikar-lak yelled something about blasphemy. The King seemed to dismiss it, but Lord Amandil stood up and challenged Annatar’s words in front of everyone, then bent to whisper something to Ar-Pharazôn. Lord Azgarad and his own master, Lord Elendil, backed Amandil up, demanding an apology from Annatar. Tigôn could hardly believe it.  What had the Zigûr said?    
  
Ar-Pharazôn commanded the Zigûr’s guards to force him to his knees. In a flurry of motion, they threw him down on the dock. Tigôn sensed a sudden strange energy in the crowd and flinched at the black hatred he saw on the faces of two Lorcastrîn nearby who were staring at the King.     
  
He looked for Sûla and found him standing back from the commotion, a look of consternation on his face.  Tigôn had a sudden desire to touch him.  Slowly, he pushed his way through the crowd. Tigôn came within an arm’s length, and Sûla looked into his eyes.    
  
“Remember the Eagle Eye,” Tigôn mouthed.  
  
Sûla’s glance abruptly shifted away, and Tigôn felt a hand heavy on his shoulder.  He twisted his head and saw Elendil frowning terribly at him.  “Once we’re at sea, we’re having a talk, you and I,” he said.  “Go get in the cockleboat. Now.”  
  
With one last backward glance at Sûla, Tigôn headed towards the small dinghy, but he hadn’t gone three paces, when the Zigûr pushed away his guards and invoked Lord Manwë.  And then—incredibly—Tigôn watched him summon the wind.     
  
*****  
  
Somberly, the King and his entourage including the Zigûr and his servant filed into the barge. A man freed their mooring, pushed off from the docks, and the rowers ponderously began their strokes, moving the barge out to his Majesty’s ship, the Zimrazra.  
  
Still astonished and rueful about the game they’d just played and lost, Amandil murmured to Elendil,  “How in thunder did he do that?”  
  
“He’s a Maia, Ada,” Elendil replied. “We keep forgetting how powerful he is.  I think he’s mumming weakness.”  
  
“We are in trouble,” Amandil said, heavily.  “And there goes the King to his ship.  No possibility now of getting a word with him, not after Annatar’s theatrics.  Do you think the sorcerer planned it all ahead of time?”  
  
“Either that or he’s one lucky bastard,” Elendil said grimly. “I doubt it would even matter if you talked to the King at this juncture. Especially after this. Ar-Pharazôn was unhappy enough that you crossed him in front of his subjects. His Majesty is besotted.” Amandil made a noise of disgust and Elendil grasped his arm.  “Ada, we shall simply have to be vigilant.  I suggest we put it from our minds for a time and concentrate on a safe voyage home. All I want right now is to see Lórellin and the boys again.”  
  
From the dinghy Amandil’s navigator called, “Captain Aphanuzîr are you coming?”    
  
“Yes,” Amandil waved at him. With a sudden fierceness, he embraced Elendil. “May the wind be at your back, ion nîn,” he said.  
  
“And you,” Elendil said.  “I’ll try to keep you in sight, but who knows about the vagaries of Ossë.  I’ll see you in Rómenna.”        
  
They parted. Both got into the waiting boats and were rowed out to their vessels.  Amandil climbed up the rope ladder and surveyed his ship as he balanced upon the gently pitching deck. His men were busily hoisting the sails, which swelled in the breeze.  “That’s enough sail,” Amandil called.  “The wind is rising fast. Raise anchor. We’re heading home!”  
  
He heard cheering from all sides and felt like cheering himself.  He stood near the tiller, listening to the clanking chain as several men worked the winch.  Amandil looked back to shore where a number of men were still bustling about the docks and spied the lone figure of Lord Azgarad shading his eyes, gazing after them.   
  
A feeling of apprehension washed over him.  He would much prefer that Azgarad was returning to Númenor. He’d been an excellent Steward, capable, loyal, exacting. Amandil had not desired Azgarad’s office. No good would come of  these changes; he was sure of that. Why couldn’t life have remained the way it had been in Tar-Palantir’s day?  Although ascetic, somewhat fey, and given to strange fits in which he had visions, Tar-Palantir had been a king worthy of Númenor’s great heritage.   
  
Amandil remembered his dream the morning the Zigûr was captured in which a raven sat on Ar-Pharazôn’s shoulder, pecking him bloody. His stomach twisted. Fervently, he wished his current monarch had never come to these shores, nor insisted on carrying home such a perilous prisoner.    
   
*****    
  
Since there were no immediate tasks for Sûla to do—his master had retired into the King’s cabin, shortly after they had cast off—he leaned on the railing of His Majesty’s immense ship Zimrazra and tried to keep out of the way of the mariners rushing about, their bare feet slapping on the deck.    
  
Listening to the soft shushing of the water as the ship cut through the waves, he couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face at his master’s triumph over the Bawîba Manô priests.  He had no love for the Bawîba Manô, who made no secret that they hated everything Sûla was.  Annatar had stuck it to them in a way that no one could dispute. He found himself feeling proud that he served such a brilliant master.    
  
The gulls dove and flapped about the three masts while the ship creaked and shuddered, listing over a bit; the sails bellied out taut with the strengthening breeze. Dotting the horizon as far as he could see, floated the other ships, all slowly moving off.  He could still see Elendil’s ship, the Izrê flying its blue banner with the white ship following a blazing star. The Izrê, what an appropriate name. And there was a figure with golden hair. Could it be Tigôn? Would they be able to meet in Rómenna and run off together?    
  
High above him, two gulls began a battle over a small fish. Amidst squawking and flapping wings, a pale grey feather drifted down, landing on the deck.  Sûla leaned over and picked it up.  He remembered the flights of the myriad birds that infested the port of Rómenna, including the magnificent sea eagles that nested on the cliffs and he realized why last night after his first bout with Annatar, he had noticed the feather on the floor. It was his promise to Tigôn, the one he must keep hidden. The Eagle Eye in Rómenna. Annatar would never know, so long as he was careful.  He tucked the feather into his waistband.       
      
“Ah, there you are,” a familiar voice called.   
  
Sûla jerked his head up and saw his master emerge from the King’s cabin. He was missing his hat and his hair was unbraided, flowing wildly about his shoulders. Annatar cast a disgusted look back at the cabin. His guards stirred from their positions by the door, and followed him, keeping their distance. Their faces again wore that strange, bland expression that meant the Zigûr had them under control.  They would only see or hear what he wanted them to.  The reminder made Sûla shudder.       
  
“Don’t you have to go to the brig, my Lord?” Sûla asked.       
  
“No.” Annatar’s eyes shifted sideways. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “I’ve done my penance already and that was unpleasant enough. His Majesty said that since I had demonstrated favor with Manwë, he would forgive my ill-considered words.”  His sudden creamy smile suggested that he did not regret any of his ‘ill-considered’ words. He settled next to Sûla, leaning his elbows against the polished wood railing.  Sûla felt a prickle and swell of lust just from standing so close to him. Unbidden, the sensation arose of being pinned underneath him this morning looking into his catlike eyes. He found it difficult to breathe. Annatar glanced at him and his smirk suggested he knew exactly how he affected Sûla.   
  
Annatar continued, “I believe the King was amused by it all.  He is not especially fond of the Bawîba Manô.”  
  
“Who is fond of them?” Sûla said.   
  
“Not many I’m discovering,” Annatar smirked.    
  
 “Well, I’m just glad I won’t have to carry your dinners down to the bottom of the hold, going past every arse-pinching sailor on the ship.”  
  
“Is that a problem?”    
  
“It usually is,” Sûla said.  “My Lord.  Although this time I have defenses.”  He put his hand on his upper arm where the dragon curled in slumber.     
  
“Not wise to employ your new skills here,” Annatar said in a low growl. “Too many men, too close together.”  
  
“Yes. Of course, my Lord.”    
  
“Tell them they’ll have to deal with me if they do it again,” Annatar said, affably.  He closed his eyes, seeming to relish the breeze. His hair lifted like tongues of flame about his finely-honed features.     
  
“I wish you had been around when I crossed over the first time five years ago,” Sûla said, pressing up next to him to absorb more of that tingling pleasure.  “I was just thinking how different my position is now.  Then I was but another slave among dozens being sent over to the auctions in Rómenna.  I had to fight for every sip of water and scrap of bread, until I learned that some of the crew would share their food if I took care of their needs.”  He raised his chin.  “I survived. There were others not so lucky.”  
    
“You are resourceful. That’s why I wanted your service,” Annatar said, regarding him with those yellow cat-eyes.  “And you are quite practical too, so I’m wondering why you stuck a feather in your belt.  It can’t have any use.”   
  
He didn’t miss a thing Sûla thought, dismayed.  He fished around and drew it out, holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger.  “I thought it was pretty.”        
  
Annatar took it and ran a finger along one edge.  “A feather is a marvel of engineering.  It almost makes me believe in the wisdom of Eru.  Let us see the path it takes now.”  He placed it on his palm and blew forcefully on it.  The feather leapt from his hand and spiraled down past the prow of the ship that was slicing through churning mats of seaweed, then disappeared, indistinguishable from the foam.   
  
Sûla hated him at that moment, even though his body still thrummed with desire. He ran two fingers over his lips, where the feeling of Tigôn’s mouth still lingered. Izrê.  
  
*****  
  
When he cast away the feather, Mairon sensed sudden anger from his servant. Interesting. He remembered picking up some strange thoughts from Sûla when he was riding him last night. Images of gulls flying.  What was the boy hiding from him?  Well, whatever it was, if it was important, he would find it out, eventually.   
  
Mairon smiled broadly, enjoying the wind in his face. He had taken the risk in surrendering to the Númenóreans, rolled the bones, and won.  Far from being in chains, he was now a member of the King’s Council as a truthsayer; he had rid himself both of the traitor, Rabêlozar, and of the King’s Steward, Azgarad, one of his main rivals; had revenged himself upon the Haradrim for failing to join his forces; and had acquired a most promising servant who fulfilled his needs in every way. The King was controlled, almost docile in fact. And even if he still had to perform unpleasant services for him, he could tolerate that. He’d been trained by the master and knew well how to play the catamite. Now, they were finally on their way to Númenor, leaving plenty of time to plot his next steps.    
  
As far as he could see, like a flock of scarlet and golden swans, the King’s fleet was on the move.  The palace perched on the high hill of Umbar swiftly receded behind them—and good riddance. The ships were still enveloped by the long, narrow arms of the gulf, but in a day or so they would be on open water.  Two fortnights, if his sniveling brother was willing, and they’d reach the distant shores of Númenor. He found himself growing excited at the prospect, desiring to see for himself the fabled country that Ossë had raised from the depths of the ocean. The city of Armenelos was rumored to be filled with engineering and architectural marvels. Mairon cradled his chin in his hand as he gazed out over the foam-crested waves.  There was so much he wanted to do and Númenor had such potential.  He would be a far better ruler than the current King, that was certain.  Everything was going perfectly. In truth, he felt like celebrating.  
  
“Go down below and get me a cup of wine,” he said to Sûla, who was standing uncomfortably close. “Remind anyone with wandering hands just who you belong to.”     
  
Sûla bowed and left.       
  
Mairon glanced back at the door leading to the King’s cabin. He remembered Ar-Pharazôn’s voice, shuddering with pleasure as Mairon worked him with his mouth: “Oh, you’re far too good at this to be stuck down in the hold for an entire sennight.”     
  
Sûla lifted the hatch and disappeared down the stairs into the dark maw of the ship.  Mairon watched him go, quite glad that he wasn’t being dragged down there to sit in a cage, lurching about, listening to the waves churning against the sides.  He didn’t think he could have borne it. Suddenly he shivered all over, then the world tilted.  Dizzy and nauseated, he grasped the railing and rocked back and forth, once, twice, thrice.    
  
A silvery voice husked from within. _No, never.  I’ll never be locked up again!  I’ll cut my own throat first!  Your throat._    
  
Mairon straightened up, suddenly alert. Not again.            
  
 _So cocksure, aren’t you, Sauron. Don’t forget I’m still here with you, watching every move, waiting for your inevitable mistake._  
  
“Then you’ll wait a long time, arsehole!” Mairon roared.  A sailor passing by flinched and scurried off.    
  
 _I’ll eat you from within!_  
  
Mairon swayed away from the rail, realizing that he had better go immediately to his cabin and brew more of the potion required to suppress the cursed elf.  By Ossë’s foam-soaked bollocks this was infuriating!  
  
 _Ha, Gorthaur, even the best-laid plans can go awry. Look up!_  
  
Mairon raised his eyes. Far aloft he discerned an eagle, flying swiftly against the wind.   
  
The End of Volume I          
~o0o~

  
Ada - Sindarin meaning “Father.”     
Anadûnê - Adûnaic for Númenor.   
Bârî an-Adûn - Adûnaic for ‘Lords of the West’ meaning the Valar.   
Izrê - canon Adûnaic meaning ‘beloved or ‘desired.’  
ion nîn - Sindarin meaning ‘my son.’  
Pûh - canon Adûnaic meaning ‘breath’ or ‘spirit’  
Zimrazra - from canon Adûnaic, meaning ‘sea jewel.’  Thank you Malinornë!  
  
The oiolairë bough: In The Unfinished Tales: Aldarion and Erendis: A Mariner’s Wife, Tolkien describes the Númenórean  custom of placing a branch from a fragrant evergeen called oiolairë on the prow of a ship as an offering to Ossë and his wife Uinen to ensure good fortune and a safe return.  The bough was supposed to be brought by a close female relative of the captain.  For a fleet as large as Ar-Pharazôn’s, the blessing might well have been done in a mass ceremony before departing. I have imagined that Ossë’s priest is simply renewing the blessing for the return voyage.    
          
  



	32. Glossary of Characters and Terms in Elegy for Númenor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listing of characters and terms appearing in Elegy for Númenor, vol. I, plus some interesting notes on use of languages on Númenor.

On languages spoken by the Númenóreans:  
  
Quenya was the formal language on Númenor, much in the same way Latin was used in Europe in medieval times. Many place names, names of people, (such as Elendil and Amandil) and types of flora and fauna are in Quenya. However, in the early history of the island, on a daily basis people spoke both Sindarin (the _lingua franca_ of the elvish world) and Adûnaic (a language of Men), although speaking Sindarin was more prominent on the northwest coast in the vicinity of Andúnië. Númenórean nobles tended to speak both Sindarin and Adûnaic. (Note #19 in “Aldarion and Erendis,” _Unfinished Tales_.)    
  
As time went on and many Númenóreans became estranged from the elves, Adûnaic became more common, until finally the twentieth King, Ar-Adûnakhôr, banned the use of elvish tongues and took his name in Adûnaic and not Quenya.  The rest of the Kings followed suit with the exception of Tar-Palantir.   After the downfall of Númenor, Adûnaic evolved into Westron, the Common Tongue.  
  
At the time of this story the common tongue on Númenor is Adûnaic, so the reader needs to imagine that under normal circumstances that is the language the characters are speaking. Tigôn and Amandil and Elendil would be bilingual, speaking Adûnaic at court, but Sindarin amongst themselves. Hence Elendil’s use of the term Ada for his father and Tigôn’s use of híren (‘my lord’) to address Elendil.    
  
Mairon’s permanent interior resident, Fingaer, as an elf from Ost-in-Edhil, speaks Sindarin.  
  
Because all the Adûnaic names are confusing enough without trying to translate everything to that language which would be next to impossible anyway because there isn't enough canon vocabulary, my default in the story was to use canon terms from the Akallabêth, which includes using Quenya for place names and personal names, including using the term Valar and their Quenya names such as Manwë and Ossë, as well as some terms like kirinki (a bird) and oiolairë (an evergreen).  
  
For names, I’ve used both canon Adûnaic and some invented Adûnaic and sometimes a combination, where canon Adûnaic terms are juxtaposed to create a non-canon name.  I’ve noted the origin of the names, so hopefully, no one mistakes an invented term for a canon one.  
  
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Many thanks to Malinornë, skilled Middle-earth linguist, and to Russandol for help in creating original terms. And a big sloppy puppy kiss to Russandol for going through this mess, accumulated very casually over the course of three years of writing, and making it look presentable. You guys are both phenomenal!  


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Ada - (Sindarin meaning ‘Father’).  
  
abarîm (Adûnaic elfscribe-invented term, related to bâr meaning ‘lord’) gold pieces, like sovereigns.  Abara would be one gold piece.  
  
Aksan (elfscribe-invented name) the leader of the Haradrim, nephew to King Hybernan.  Adding the i at the end ‘Aksani’ denotes respect in elfscribe canon.  
  
Amandil - father of Elendil, lord of Andúnië, ship captain and counselor to Ar-Pharazôn. Amandil is Quenya meaning ‘lover or friend of Aman.’ His Adûnaic name is Aphanuzîr.  Amandil’s house banner is an elfscribe invention, blue with the white ship following Eärendil’s blazing star.  His wife’s name Silmariën is canon Adûnaic, but since Tolkien didn't give Amandil's wife a name, using a queen's name is an elfscribe invention. In elfscribe canon, Amandil’s wife died years earlier.                  
                              
Anadûnê  (Adûnaic) another name for Númenor, meaning ‘Westernesse.’  
  
Aglahad (Adûnaic) the King's scribe, a handsome former zirâmîki.  
  
Aphanuzîr - Amandil’s Adûnaic name, meaning ‘friend of Aman.’  
  
Ar-Pharazôn (Adûnaic) ‘King Golden.’  His Quenya name is Tar-Calion.  
  
Arubinzad (Adûnaic, elfscribe-invented name) a former counselor who defied Ar-Pharazôn and was hanged.  
  
Arzog’s Pass (elfscribe-invented name and location) a pass through hills located a day’s march from Umbar.  
  
Azgarad (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name from azgara, meaning ‘to wage war’) Ar-Pharazôn’s steward, the second most powerful man in Númenor.  
  
Aznat (elfscribe-invented name) the King's herald.     
  
Azrabêth (Adûnaic name meaning ‘sea-sayer’) Tigôn’s aunt, who ran away with her female lover on her wedding day and lives in Andúnië. Her Quenya name is Eärquettë, meaning literally ‘sea word.’ Both names courtesy of Malinornë.  

Azrazirân (Adûnaic name meaning ‘beloved of the sea,’ a rough translation of Eärdur, which is Quenya) Tigôn’s father, Lord of Eldalondë.  
  
Azûlizrê (elfscribe-invented name from canon Adûnaic, meaning ‘eastern beloved’) daughter of Magân, the Umbarian magician. Courtesy Elleth of the Lizard Council.    
  
Azûnê (invented Adûnaic name) Sula’s former master in Númenor. Courtesy of Malinornë.  
  
Azûlada Batan (Adûnaic, meaning ‘eastern road’) name of Magan’s shop.  
  
banâth (Adûnaic, meaning ‘wife’) I’m using it as a generic term for a woman, sort of like saying, ‘goodwife.’  
  
Bansil - one of Amandil’s servants. The name is from an early version of the silver tree, Telperion.  
  
Baran (Sindarin, meaning ‘golden brown’) Sauron’s wolf cub which he owned while living in Tol-in-Gaurhoth.  
  
Bârî an-Adûn (Adûnaic) Valar, meaning ‘Lords of the West.’  Bârîm an-Adûn also means Valar, but is a subject of a sentence.  
  
Bawîba Manô (Adûnaic, bawîba  means ‘wind’ and manô ‘spirit’ - combined by elfscribe into a new term) Eru’s high priests of the sect of Manwë. They wear feathered capes and helms shaped like an eagle’s head with an open beak for the visor.  
  
Belza (fragment of the untranslated canon Adûnaic name Belzagar) an Umbarian guard.  
  
Bildûn (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) one of the King’s guards.    
  
breeches - spelling I’m using as opposed to breaches.  
  
Brûni (elfscribe-invented Umbarian name) the village Sûla is from, located south of Umbar along the coast.  Pronounced Broon-eye.    
  
burzum-ishi krimpatul (Black Speech) the freezing spell words Sauron teaches Sûla. The words,  recognizable as part of the inscription on the Ring, mean ‘in the darkness bind them.’  
  
Cloud - Sula’s horse given to him by the King.  
  
Dâira (Adûnaic, meaning ‘earth’) Queen Ar-Zimraphel’s servant and friend.    
  
Dâur (Adûnaic, meaning ‘gloom,’ elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) a weasely looking guard who appears early on watching over Annatar and later takes Sûla to the prison in Umbar.    
          
Darîkil (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) one of the King’s pages.  Short brown hair, a dimple in one cheek. The fourth son of a lesser lord of Hyarrostar, who lived in Armenelos.  
  
Dâurphursâr (elfscribe-invented name from the canon Adûnaic words, phursâ ‘to gush’ and dâur meaning ‘gloom’) the Regent Rabêlozar’s food taster.  
  
doctor - called a surgeon or a healer in this story.  
  
Dolgu (elfscribe-invented name from canon Adûnaic meaning ‘night’ but with an evil connotation) the Chief Nazgûl, a.k.a. the Witchking of Angmar. There is no canon name for the Witchking but since he is described as a former prince of Númenor, giving him an Adûnaic name makes sense.    
  
Dulginzin (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) the odious son of Izindor.  
  
Eärdur (Quenya, meaning ‘servant of the sea’) Tigôn’s father and younger brother of Lord Vëandur of Eldalondë, a member of the Faithful and friend of Elendil’s. The Adûnaic translation would be Azrazirân ‘beloved of the sea.’  
  
Elendil (Quenya, meaning, ‘elf-lover’) son of Amandil and also a lord of Andúnië, and counselor to Ar-Pharazôn. His Adûnaic name is Nimruzîr which translates to the same thing.  In elfscribe ‘verse, his wife’s name is Lórellin.  
      
Ephalak (Adûnaic  meaning ‘far away’) Rabelozar’s exchequer.  
  
Endórë (Quenya) Middle-earth.  
  
fëa and hröa (Quenya) fëa means ‘soul’ or ‘spirit,’ and hröa means ‘body.’  The equivalent terms in Sindarin are fae and rhaw.  Fae is both singular and plural.  
  
Fermen (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) guard who was killed by Sauron.  
  
Fingaer (Sindarin, meaning ‘red-haired’) son of Celebrimbor; he’s the elf from Ost-in-Edhil whose body Sauron stole.  He is an invented character since Celebrimbor doesn’t have a canon son.  Fingaer called his lover Gûren, my heart.  
  
Gimilbâr (Adûnaic  meaning ‘star lord’) one of the drummers in the Umbarian palace.  
   
glamog (Sindarin) orc.  
      
Gron - Mairon’s strategist, a gnome.  An elfscribe-invented name with no language affiliation, although it’s related to ‘Grond.’    
  
Haradren (Sindarin) adjective meaning ‘Southern.’ This is a term invented by elfscribe and Malinornë since there isn't a canon adjective for the Haradrim or name for the language they speak.  Because of a dearth of canon Southron, Haradren words are all elfscribe inventions.  
  
Hazûn (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) guard who “captured” Annatar and later becomes Captain of the King’s guard.          
  
híren (Sindarin) ‘my lord.’  Tigôn uses this term with Elendil because he grew up with him and Sindarin is the first language for both of them.  
                  
Hozdûnik (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) a leering guard with craggy cheeks who made suggestive comments to Sûla and to Annatar.  He appears numerous times in the story  
  
King Hybernan - Elfscribe-invented name for King of the Haradrim.  
                  
Igmil (Adûnaic, meaning ‘star-shaped figure’) Captain of Rabêlozar’s prison guard.  
  
Ikar-lak, one of the Bawîba Manô, who are Eru’s high priests of the sect of Manwë. Name is an elfscribe invention with no relation to canon Adûnaic.  
  
ion nîn - (Sindarin meaning ‘my son’).  
  
Izindor (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name, from izindi meaning ‘straight’) Lord of Arandor and father of Dulginzin and Mirandor.    
   
Izrê - (Adûnaic meaning ‘beloved or ‘desired’).  A term of endearment and also the name of Elendil’s ship.  
  
Kathalômi (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name meaning roughly ‘all night’) Sûla’s aunt.  
  
Khibil (Adûnaic, meaning ‘spring’) a member of Elendil’s household.  
  
Khunig -  Sûla’s stepfather who abused him.  An elfscribe invention with help from Malinornë.  
  
kirinki (Quenya) canon name for a flashy red bird on Númenor.  
  
Korizar (elfscribe-invented Haradren name) Aksan’s henchman.  
  
Kuphîr (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) one of Ar-Pharazôn’s pages. Bastard son of a Bawîba Manô priest.  
  
Kulbî, son of Kirib (canon Adûnaic names; kulbi means ‘roots’ and kirib is not translated) the guard Annatar accused of stealing a bracelet belonging to the King.  
  
Lillu (elfscribe-invented Umbarian name) one of Rabêlozar’s courtesans.  
  
Lorcastra (plural Lorcastrîn, elfscribe-invented Haradren term) a sect of the Black Serpent cult that practice black magic. Thanks to Russandol.                           
  
Lórellin (Quenya) Elendil’s wife, an elfscribe-invented character.  She is named after the lake in Valinor where Estë rests.  
  
Magân (Adûnaic, meaning ‘wright’) herbalist that Sauron sends Tigôn to in Umbar, one of the Lorcastrîn, (see entry for Lorcastra).  
  
Mairon (Quenya) Sauron's original name meaning ‘excellent’ or ‘admirable.’ Tar-Mairon means  ‘King Excellent.’  From ‘Words, Phrases & Passages in various tongues in The Lord of the Rings’ published in Parma Eldalamberon #17: “Sauron’s original name was Mairon, but this was altered after he was suborned by Melkor. But he continued to call himself Mairon the Admirable, or Tar-mairon ‘King Excellent’ until after the downfall of Númenor.”  
  
mîki (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic term, from canon Adûnaic mîk meaning ‘baby boy’). Slang word for boy with a slightly jeering meaning, like saying ‘dude’ or ‘pal’ or ‘boyo.’  
  
Mirandor (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) youngest son of Izindor.  He has a wall-eye  
  
Milzagar (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) a handsome blond guard (fox-face).    
   
Míriel (Quenya, meaning ‘jewel-daughter’) the Queen, Ar-Pharazôn’s wife and cousin. Her Adûnaic name is Zimraphel.  
  
morthul (Sindarin, meaning ‘black breath’) an elfscribe invention for a narcotic made from flower seed, like opium.  
  
nadzûn (Adûnaic, elfscribe-invented term) a worthless buddy.  
  
Narûkh (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name combining man ‘naru’ and shout ‘rûkh’) a guard.    
  
Nibanuzîr (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) the King’s head of household.  
  
Niduzîn (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) one of the King’s male servants that Ar-Pharazôn brought in as a substitute for Sûla.           
  
Nimruzîr - Elendil’s Adûnaic name.  
  
Nûluroth (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name, roughly meaning ‘night foam’) Sûla’s cousin.  
  
orzini (elfscribe-invented Haradren term) beer infused with a drug that makes one impervious to pain.  
  
Pâroth (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name, combining Adûnaic pâ meaning ‘hand’ and roth ‘cut’) Dulginzin’s servant, man with a scar on his neck and burn marks on hands.  
  
Pûh - (Adûnaic meaning ‘breath’ or ‘spirit’). The name of Amandil’s ship.  
  
pushdug ilid (Black Speech and fanon) ‘dung-filth elf.’ Ilid is a fanon term, not canon. Pushdug means dungfilth in Black Speech (but probably a debased form).  
  
Rabêlozar (Elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) Regent of Umbar.  
  
Ráca (Quenya, meaning ‘wolf’) Annatar’s pet.    
  
Ratcatcher (elfscribe invention) a variety of knucklebones, or bones.  
   
Rhag ena (elfscribe-invented Haradren term) ‘stand back.’  
  
Rothîbal (Elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) Lord of Ondosto.  
  
Saibêth (Adûnaic, meaning ‘assent’) - Sûla’s mother.  
  
scunning (elfscribe-invented Orcish curse) the exact meaning is unknown but it’s nasty. Imagine ‘bloody’ in its place.  
  
Sha! (Black Speech) an expression of contempt.  
  
Sikhulzin (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) a beaky nosed guard.  
  
Silmariën (Quenya, meaning ‘garlanded maiden’) Amandil’s wife who died many years earlier than the story.  This is an elfscribe-invented character.

Skazung (elfscribe-invented Haradren term) swear word meaning ‘excrement.’

snaga (Black Speech) ‘slave.’

Sûla (Adûnaic, meaning ‘trump’) Ar-Pharazôn’s cupbearer and zirâmîki. His former master before the King was Lord Azûnê. His stepfather is Khunig.  He is from the village of Brûni, (elfscribe invention) further down the coast from Umbar.  His village has ties with the Haradrim but are not of that people.  Saibêth is his mother. Kathalômi is his aunt. Kathalômi’s husband is Yakalud. Nûluroth is their son, Sûla’s cousin.

tarks – Númenóreans. In LOTR this word is used by orcs to refer to men of Gondor.  It comes from the Quenya word tarkîl, meaning Númenóreans. I am inferring that Sauron could have used it as a derogatory term for Númenóreans.

Tar-Mairon (Quenya) ‘King Excellent.’ A name for Sauron used by Dolgu. See entry for Mairon.

Tar-Palantir (Quenya, meaning ‘far-sighted’) the former King, Míriel’s father. His Adûnaic name is Ar-Inziladûn meaning ‘King Flower of the West.’

Tigôn (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) Ar-Pharazôn’s messenger.  His father is Lord Eärdur who is the younger brother of Lord Vëandur of Eldalondë. They often visited Amandil and Elendil in Andúnië nigh to the old havens and was a playmate of Anárion when young.  

Truthsayer - Another name for Annatar since he could determine if someone is telling the truth.  One word, no hyphen.

Urug (Adûnaic, meaning ‘bear’) a zirâmîki, who was formerly Ar-Pharazôn’s favorite and became Sûla’s rival.

vâkis (elfscribe-invented Haradren name) male genitals, plural vâkim.

Vëandur of Eldalondë, Elendil’s friend and Tigôn’s uncle.

Yakalud (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) Sûla’s uncle.

Yanak (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) King’s surgeon and husband of Zôri, the healer.   

Zanar (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) one of Ar-Pharazôn’s pages. The son of a wealthy shipping merchant in Rómenna.  

Zigûr (Adûnaic) ‘wizard’. This term is used to describe Sauron as The Zigûr.

Zimrazra - (Adûnaic, meaning ‘sea jewel’) Ar-Pharazôn’s ship before he built Alcarondas (the Castle of the Sea). Courtesy Malinornë.

zirâmîth, (plural zirâmîthin; elfscribe-invented Adûnaic term, from canon Adûnaic ziran meaning ‘beloved’ or ‘desired’ and mîth, ‘maid-child’) beloved girls or courtesans. Feminine form of zirâmiki.

zirâmîki (plural zirâmîkin; elfscribe-invented Adûnaic term, from canon Adûnaic ziran meaning ‘beloved’ or ‘desired’ and mîk, ‘young boy’) beloved boys or male courtesans.

Zizzûn (elfscribe-invented Umbarian name) Master of Fate, a god of the peasants around Umbar.

Zoganîr (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) Tigôn’s older brother.

Zôri (Adûnaic meaning ‘nurse’) the healer whom Sauron bewitches. Technically it should be spelled Zôrî but if I have to add one more accent to a name, I'll scream.  
  
  
*********  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Drink The Sunset](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4750469) by [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine)




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